


Consequences

by clarascosmos



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Betrayal, Birmingham, Blood and Injury, Camden Town, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gambling, Gangs, Gangsters, Italian Character(s), Love Triangles, Multi, Organized Crime, Orphans, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Season/Series 02, Prostitution, Romance, Sad Ending, Sad and Happy, Shelby Company Limited, Slow Build, Small Heath, Smoking, Some Humor, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:42:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarascosmos/pseuds/clarascosmos
Summary: Spring 1924.Martha never expected to find herself living alone in a cramped flat on Watery Lane at the age of sixteen. With her father now dead and no family left, she struggles to make ends meet and lives in fear of what trouble the Peaky Blinders will bring to Small Heath next. When she encounters Thomas Shelby in horrific circumstances, she realises that there's more to the infamous gang than meets the eye. But how much of the truth is she really seeing?
Relationships: Esme Shelby/John Shelby, Finn Shelby/Original Female Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Lizzie Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, welcome to Consequences! This was originally published on Wattpad in a first person POV but I felt that it really wasn't working with the story so I have decided to rewrite it in third person and post it on here, because I much prefer AO3 in general and to be honest I should have just posted it on here from the start. 
> 
> Before I get started I just want to clear up that I've used the underage archive warning as the Finn and Martha are both 16/17, however in the UK the age of consent is 16 just in case anyone was confused about that. 
> 
> This fic is an AU set in 1924, the same year that series three is set in. In this universe Grace chooses to go back to America with her husband and Tommy's child. Therefore she will not be in this fic
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

30th January 1924

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Edward Yates, who passed away on the 23rd of January...” The voice of the priest is grating against Martha’s ears, but she cannot block it out. She wishes she could block out everything around her, erase this entire day from existence, but for now keeping her head bowed will have to suffice. Looking up at the open casket would only make everything real. 

When she first walked into the church for the service the sight of her father made her want to vomit, and every instinct in her body had told her to flee the church and never come back. Joseph’s arm around her body said otherwise. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he had whispered to her as a single tear rolled down her pale cheek. They had stood there for a moment, but long enough for her to see that his eyes were too empty and his skin was too taught to even resemble something close to the man her father had once been. 

The only thing that was remotely familiar was his clothing. Dressed in his best suit with a white rose in the breast pocket, his skin was so pale around his collar that it was impossible to see where flesh ended and fabric began. Then Joseph had released her and taken her hand instead, and led her to the pews.

Martha feels him squeeze her hand again now, and as the words of the priest all blur into one she dares a glance up at her father’s body. She only realises that she’s been crying when her vision of him is blurry. No matter how much she scrubs at her eyes with the handkerchief Joseph passes to her, the tears continue to come flooding back, along with the memory of finding her father slumped lifeless on the floor of their living room. 

They stand for a hymn, then there’s a reading, and then the organist begins playing ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ and the choir begins to sing. Martha’s father had always said that this was the only hymn he wanted the choir to sing at his funeral, on account of it serving as a reminder of the War. Now she thinks about it, it was the only time they had really discussed his experiences in France. Other men drowned their sorrows in alcohol, or numbed themselves with opium, but her father had been taciturn until his dying breath. Perhaps that was what had caused the heart attack: the pain from the war was too much of a burden.

Martha turns to gaze at the congregation surrounding her, threatening to swallow her whole. She recognises a few of the men her father worked with, and families from their street, but there’s fewer still whose names she can recall. The only people she truly knows are Joseph and her friend Annie, who sits across the aisle with her family. Annie’s mother is in the aisle, pew, dabbing at her eyes as the soaring voices of the choirboys echo throughout the church. Martha would probably recognise more people if she were taller and could see all the way to the back of the church. 

As she observes the swathes of people she struggles to comprehend how alone she now is. Being without a mother had made things difficult for her, but being without her father is something Martha had never imagined. Even now she feels as though she’ll go back to their home after the service and find him beside the fire in his armchair, head buried in a book. If her mother was still alive she most likely wouldn’t be in Small Heath at all. They all would have lived in the Lickey Hills in the cottage where her mother had been brought up. They’d have horses and chickens and Martha would have spent her free time riding in the forest. But her harsh reality is that she’ll be returning home to her new flat on Watery Lane, where the darkness lingers even on the sunniest of days. 

The song finishes, the choirboys sit and the priest begins talking about Edward again. Martha stares at her shoes. She feels the attention of the congregation shift onto her as her father is described as an “intelligent man and a kind father.” Being on the front row makes her easy to spot, but if she wasn’t the auburn hair that she and her father share would have given her away. It’s the only trait they shared; the photographs in her home showed she looked like her mother with round freckled cheeks and a delicate nose. Nowadays all she wants to do is attack her hair with a razor blade. 

Joseph nudges Martha gently with his elbow, and when she glances up she sees the priest’s eyes on her. It’s time. “Good luck,” says Joseph, but Martha can’t look at him. If she looks at him all she’ll see is regret about not telling her father about their relationship. The day she came back home to find his body was the day she planned to tell him. 

She forces her legs to guide her to the front of the church and as she turns to face the congregation she pulls a piece of crumpled paper out of her dress pocket. Even from this point she can’t see all the way to the back of the church thanks to her lack of height. At the other end of the aisle the church door has been left ajar, and through it a bitter winter breeze enters the building. Martha wipes her cheeks clean of tears and clears her throat. 

“Thank you for coming, I know it would have meant a lot to Dad,” she begins, trying to hold back the tears she can feel brimming. “There won’t be a wake, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d donate a little money to the church. I’m sure Dad would have appreciated that. Thank you again.” Martha bows her head and shuffles awkwardly back to her seat. 

When the organist starts playing again most of the congregation get to their feet and begin filing out of the church. Joseph stays sat beside Martha, and Annie and her family make no attempts to leave. “Thank god that’s over,” Martha whispers. Her voice is hoarse from crying, and she flinches a little when Joseph kisses her forehead. 

“You did well,” he tells her. She can tell he’s lying; she was a wreck throughout the entire ordeal. Joseph stands, and Martha mimics his actions. He looks around and then says, “I need to find my parents. Will you be alright?” 

She nods, and glances over to where Annie and her family are. Annie finally meets her gaze. “I’ll be fine,” Martha tells her sweetheart. “I’ll see you outside for the burial.” 

Joseph only nods in response before leaving Martha’s side, only to be replaced moments later when Martha makes her way over to Annie. “You did really well, Martha,” Annie says as the pair share an embrace. It doesn’t provide Martha with any warmth. “I know how nervous you were.”

Martha wants to stay tucked in Annie’s arms forever, but if she stays there she’ll start crying again and never stop. So she lets go and meets Annie’s puffy eyes, most likely matching her own. “I’m just glad it’s over. Are you coming out for the burial?” Martha asks. 

“Mum wants me to meet one of her old friends first,” Annie says, pulling a face and gestures to her mother. She’s crouched in front of Annie’s little brother, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. He’s barely six years old, and even though he’s crying he has a youthful ignorance that Martha wishes she could share today. It would be so much easier to grieve if she didn’t know all of the horrible details. 

“I’ll see you out there, then.” Martha gives Annie one last hug and turns on her heel, only to be met by the sight of the priest. 

“Ah, Miss Yates, we will be going out for the burial in around ten minutes. You’re more than welcome to wait here in the warm if you’d prefer? It’s awfully chilly outside.” He places an awkward hand on Martha’s shoulder as an attempt to comfort her.

She shrinks away from his touch and shivers. “Actually,” Martha says, taking a small step back from him, “I’m going to take a walk in the graveyard to clear my head.” She doesn’t wait for a response before she turns away from him and begins walking down the tiled aisle towards the grand oak doors at the other end of the church. 

* * *

Tommy isn’t sure which of his brothers looks more uncomfortable. There’s John, who looks as though he’s going to murder the next person who so much as glances at him, and slumps against the church wall as he chews moodily on his cigar. Arthur had told him that he shouldn’t be smoking it at a funeral, but John just told his brother to fuck off. Tommy didn’t receive the same comment from Arthur when he lit up a cigarette as soon as they left the church. 

He watches Arthur now, tapping his foot at an increasing tempo until he finally stops with one final stomp of his shoe. “Tommy, this is fucking ridiculous,” he says as Tommy finishes his cigarette. He’s tempted to reach for another, but it would only add to Arthur’s frustration and that’s the last thing Tommy needs today. “We should just go home.”

“Too fucking right,” John agrees, and Tommy rolls his eyes. It was difficult enough convincing his brothers to come to the funeral in the first place. Even when Polly had agreed that they should all go, Arthur and John were reluctant. Arthur because he didn’t think it was right that they go, and John because he seemed to revel in objecting to every opinion or strategy that Tommy suggested. 

Tommy sighs as he glances between the two of them. The three of them are probably the reason why the congregation have all dispersed from outside the church. The few that have stuck around in anticipation of the burial keep their distance. “Just remember the reason why we’re here, alright?”

He can see some pedantic retort rise up in John, but Tommy silences him with the point of a finger as he watches Miss Yates leave the church. As he approaches her from behind he realises just how small she is, small and innocent. Her auburn hair bounces around her shoulders as she darts across the gravel, and Tommy almost has to break into a jog to catch up with her. He reaches out and places a gloved hand on her shoulder. “Miss Yates?” he says. 

Miss Yates pauses in her tracks, and Tommy wonders if it’s because she recognised the voice or if she didn’t. Then she turns, and Tommy is met with the terrified face of a grieving young girl. She says nothing, but stares back at him with her mouth agape and body trembling, not even attempting to move away from his grasp. “I’m very sorry for your loss, sweetheart,” Tommy says, hoping it’ll reassure her. Her expression doesn’t change. “Are you alright?” Tommy asks as he removes his hand from her shoulder. 

She says nothing, but looks past Tommy for a moment. Tommy turns to see what she’s looking at, and spots Arthur and John standing together. John has finally gotten rid of the cigar and replaced it with a toothpick, but still doesn’t stop glaring. Arthur, on the other hand, makes an attempt to smile, but it seems more menacing than meaningful. It’s times like these where Tommy wishes he had more competent brothers who would actually listen to what he says. He narrows his eyes at his brothers for a moment, and then turns back to Miss Yates to find that she has turned and gone, almost running away from Tommy. That could’ve gone better. 

“Well done, Tommy, you’ve scared her off now,” John says when Tommy returns to his brothers.

Tommy doesn’t bother responding directly to him. “You two get in the car. I’m staying for the burial.”

Arthur stares at him with wide eyes. “You’ll scare her even more, Tom. We should’ve brought Finn with us,” he says.

“No, he would’ve been too busy staring at her face to say anything useful,” John comments. “She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“Shut up and go and wait in the car,” Tommy says. It’s like having children instead of having brothers. Perhaps he should’ve invited Finn instead of John. 

John says nothing and begins to retreat, but Arthur lingers for a moment. “I hope you know what you’re doing, brother,” he says, then turns on his heel and follows John towards the gate.

“So do I, Arthur, so do I,” Tommy mutters to himself. 

The front of the church is now vacant, the only sounds provided by the horses waiting impatiently at the hearses. Tommy leans against the church wall and lights up another cigarette now that Arthur can’t criticise him. He’s spent a lot of time in graveyards since they all came back from France. Funerals, weddings, visiting the war graves, more funerals. He really should visit his mother’s grave, he’s not been for a while. They all used to go every week when she first died, then it became every two weeks, then every month. He’s only been once a year since they came back home. At least he understands how Miss Yates feels. 

The gravel crunches as men begin carrying the coffin out of the church, no words passed between them. Tommy’s face is like ice in the bitter January wind. He follows them from a distance, walking on the grass instead of the gravel to avoid detection. He’s gotten good at being secretive over the years, around his enemies and around his own family too. 

Tommy lingers behind a tall tombstone while the burial takes place. Before the funeral he came out here to see where he could stand undetected, and saw that beside the grave of Edward Yates was the grave of his wife, Nancy Yates. The girl has no family left at all. 

She stands now beside the opening in the ground, clinging to the arm of a taller girl and sobbing her heart out. Even the factory men as hard as iron now have crumpled faces as the coffin is lowered into the ground.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” The priest’s voice drifts into distant mumbles as Tommy keeps an eye on Miss Yates and how she doesn’t even bother wiping away the tears, basking in her grief. Tommy sees her look up for a moment, and he could swear that their eyes met momentarily as she begins to cry even harder.


	2. 'if it's a Shelby, there's no charge.'

15th March 1924

Martha perches on the edge of the armchair that fills a good chunk of the tiny room, anxiously awaiting the sound of Annie knocking on the door. Even though she anticipates it she still jumps, and she wishes Annie would arrive on time for once. She stands from her father’s armchair and makes her way to the door. They’ve only seen each other once since the funeral. Annie didn’t apologise for not being in contact, but then again Martha didn’t mention her interaction with Thomas Shelby either. 

She opens the door and is almost instantly wrapped in Annie’s arms. “How are you feeling?” she asks, but Martha is too overwhelmed by the sight of her best friend to tell her how tired she is of people asking her that. If she had sixpence for every time someone had asked her how she was feeling she’d have enough money to leave Small Heath and never look back. 

“I’m doing okay, I think,” Martha lies, and releases herself from the embrace. As Annie steps into the room Martha notes how much her friend has changed. They’re not as close as they were when they were children, and every time they see each other Martha notes a difference in Annie’s clothes and the amount of makeup she wears. She seems to become taller every time they see each other too, or maybe Martha is shrinking. The possibility wouldn’t surprise her.

Annie’s naturally rosy cheeks are scarlet from the biting wind, and she rushes to the roaring fire to warm herself up. “Fucking freezing out there,” she comments. Now that Annie fills the room with her vibrancy it’s easy for Martha to notice just how small and grim her new home is, especially compared to the house she once shared with her father. They hadn’t been rich by any standards, but they lived as comfortably as they could, and at least their little terraced home was bright and warm. Martha’s new flat seems to carry a winter chill even on warmer days. 

She can only afford to rent two rooms, and even that pushes the limits of her wages. Sunlight barely creeps in through the ground floor windows, but sometimes it can be cosy when she lights the fire. Besides, having two tiny rooms is better than being on the streets, especially with the Peaky Blinders stirring up trouble. 

Martha hasn’t been able to shake the image of Thomas Shelby staring down at her with his brothers lurking behind him, even though it’s been almost two months since her father’s funeral. She’s not seen any of the Shelby’s around since then, but she also hasn’t ventured anywhere near The Garrison or their betting den. But even though she hasn’t seen them, they have a habit of making their presence known, whether it be through the tension in the air on big race days or the aroma of alcohol that lingers in the air on Garrison Lane and beyond. Nobody in Small Heath can escape them. 

“You alright, Martha?” Annie’s voice cuts through Martha’s thoughts. Martha turns to face her, but her mind is still in the graveyard. Thomas’ face doesn’t leave her brain.

“Yeah,” Martha mumbles as she perches on the arm of her father’s chair. It’s one of the few items of furniture in the little room; she could just about squeeze in a bookshelf and table and chairs. Not that she needs much now that she’s living alone anyway. “Yeah, I just have a few things on my mind.”

Annie moves away from the fire and sits on the other arm of the chair. “Look, I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other much lately.”

“It’s fine,” Martha quickly says. “I know you’ve been tired because you’ve been working a lot more.” Martha can’t look at Annie as she says it, and stares at the photograph of her father on the table instead. Annie has two jobs, but they rarely talk about the one she does at night and during the weekends to make ends meet for her family. To Martha it makes the age gap between them feel like six years instead of six months. 

She finally looks at Annie, who wrings her hands in guilt. “Yeah, the men can’t get enough of me,” she sadly jokes, and then she turns to Martha. “Come on then, what’s bothering you?”

This might be her only chance to mention it, to mention how the image of Thomas Shelby joins the collection of horrors that fuel her incessant nightmares. “The Shelbys came to the funeral. Thomas, Arthur and John.”

Martha is simply met with Annie’s wide eyed gaze. “What? Why the fuck would they be there.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned it. “Your dad didn’t know them personally, did he?”

Martha wracks her brains for any time her father mentioned the Shelbys, but the only thing that springs to mind is her first day working at the BSA about a year ago. He had wanted to walk her there, but she had wanted to be independent. “I can fend for myself, you know,” she had said jokingly to him as she kissed him goodbye that morning.

There wasn’t a single ounce of humour in his voice when he told her to “Steer clear of the Shelbys, all they do around here is stir up trouble.” Since that day Martha has avoided them every time she’s seen them, even though she’s never witnessed any ‘trouble’ first hand. 

“Fuck, I can’t imagine having that on your conscience on top of everything else. Here I am moaning about the weather and you’ve had so much to cope with.

Martha turns so her feet rest on the seat of the chair and reaches out for Annie’s hand. “It’s alright, Ann,” she reassures her. “You’re right about the weather, anyway. It was awful coming home last night.”

Annie squeezes Martha’s hand and then sits in silence for a few seconds, a quizzical look growing on her face. “Why aren’t you working today? Am I going crazy or do you not work Saturdays?”

Martha feels her eyes brimming with tears. “I did until…” She takes a deep breath to compose herself, but fails as the tears spill. “They cut my hours the month before Dad died. Business has been slow and they don’t need me managing the books every day.”

“Please don’t tell me they cut your wages too.” Martha’s silent response tells Annie that her suspicions are correct, and Martha watches as she stands and turns away. “You should never have let them do that?”

“Did you really expect me to stand up to them?” Martha feels her voice crack, her anxieties spilling out of her. Annie cradles her in her arms and Martha leans into her chest. “I can’t afford my rent this month and I don’t know what to do,” she sobs. 

She wipes away her tears as Annie squeezes her shoulder. “You’re going to be alright,” she says. Martha wonders how Annie is always able to stay so calm, like she has this deep rational instinct that Martha will never be able to obtain. 

“How? Mrs Collins will fucking kick me out if I can’t pay.” Martha looks up at Annie. They have that telepathic relationship that only comes after knowing each other for a lifetime, and Martha knows exactly what Annie is about to suggest. “No,” she immediately says. “You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m coming out with you tonight.” 

Annie crosses her arms. “Look, I don’t want you to have to do it either, but you’re not going to get money any other way.” She sits on the arm of the chair again. Martha thinks how her father must be turning in his grave. “Besides,” Annie continues, “Saturdays are always our biggest days for earnings. The men always want a quick fuck before they head off to The Garrison.”

Martha swipes at her face to get rid of some of the lingering tears. “I don’t understand how you can talk about it so casually and treat it as such a casual thing.”

“I suppose I have to. It is my job, after all,” Annie says, and Martha feels a sudden rush of guilt. Annie does what she has to do to keep her family afloat. “So, are you going to come or not?”

Before Martha can reply there’s a thump at the door and Mrs Collins’ hoarse voice drifts into the room. “I’m here for your rent, Miss Yates.” Martha swears under her breath, rises from her seat and heads towards the door. When she opens it she’s overwhelmed by the stench of smoke and Mrs Collins stands there with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and her palm open. “Rent money, please,” she says, barely glancing at Martha.

Martha glances back at Annie, who has now shifted into the seat of the chair. Annie gives her a small nod, and then she turns back to Mrs Collins. “I’m really sorry, Mrs Collins,” Martha begins, “but is it okay if I give you the money tomorrow? I’m a little short on money but I promise I’ll get it to you tomorrow and this won’t happen again.” The words leave Martha’s mouth in a torrent of worry, and she can feel her cheeks turning scarlet. 

Mrs Collins glares at Martha and takes a drag of her cigarette. “And how exactly will you be acquiring this extra money?” As she speaks the smoke blows directly into Martha’s face, making her cough. 

“I’ll be lending it to her.” Martha feels Annie lean over her shoulder to meet Mrs Collins’ gaze, and she watches Annie’s wild eyes stare down the landlady. Being friends with someone as tough as her has its benefits. “Martha is the most trustworthy person I know, and I can assure you this will never happen again,” Annie says.

Martha watches as Mrs Collins looks Annie up and down and scoffs at her almost threadbare dress and dark eye makeup. “Perhaps I should make a policy against allowing whores onto my premises as well,” she scoffs, and turns on her heel to leave after a quick puff of her cigarette.

Annie slams the door before Martha can do it herself. “Bitch!” she mutters, and turns to face Martha. “So I suppose that means you’re coming out with me tonight, unless you’ve suddenly gained access to the Shelby vaults?”

Martha rolls her eyes and keeps her mouth shut. 

“I’ll be taking that silence as a yes, thanks very much. Finally I’ll have some decent company while I’m waiting around.” Annie smiles in an attempt to reassure Martha, but she doesn’t return it. 

“I’m only doing it because I haven’t got much choice,” Martha retorts. She feels her cheeks begin to grow hot. How has her survival come down to this? “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to go through with it, and what will I wear, and-” The words leave her mouth in a torrent of anger until Annie rests a hand on her shoulder to silence her. Martha’s breath steadies at her touch.

“It’ll all be okay, I’ll keep you safe,” Annie reassures her. “If it’s clothes you’re worried about, let’s have a look at what you’ve got.”

Martha nods and leads Annie through the doorway into her bedroom. It doesn’t have a proper door, just a flimsy curtain to divide the space that barely keeps the cold draft at bay. Her wardrobe is in the corner, and she watches as Annie immediately strides over and pulls it open. She reaches in and flicks through the clothes, but picks up nothing. “It’s all a bit…”

“Unsexy?” Some kind of strangled laugh escapes Martha, and she wonders how she can be laughing at a time like this. 

Annie shuts the wardrobe and turns around to her friend, pausing for a moment before she speaks. “I've got a dress at home that one of the girls gave me when I first started out. It was too small for me so I never wore it but I reckon it would fit you a treat.” She begins advancing out of the bedroom and towards the main door. “Give me half an hour and I’ll have it for you.”

“Thank you so much,” Martha says, and flings her arms around Annie. “But this is a one time thing, alright? I can find other ways to make ends meet.”

Annie pulls away. “I know.” she pauses for a moment and looks down at Martha. “Yeah, that dress will look great on you. The next best thing you had was that white shirt that looks suspiciously like it might belong to a certain young baker.”

Joseph hasn’t even crossed Martha’s mind through all of this. “He’d kill me if he found out about this.”

“Well, he doesn’t have to find out, does he? And I think you’d probably look like the fucking Virgin Mary in his shirt,” Annie laughs. “I’ll be back in half an hour, alright?”

“Alright,” Martha says as she opens the door for Annie, and she’s barely shut it again by the time the tears start again.

***

Annie doesn’t come back until an hour later, and when Martha lets her in her arms are laden with a wicker basket. As soon as the door opens she walks straight in and begins setting everything down on the table. “I called in a few favours and found you a coat and boots as well,” she says as she removes a pale pink dress from the basket and lays it flat on the table. 

Martha admires the delicate fabric and the black velvet flowers that adorn it. “It’s beautiful,” she says as she lays a hand on the dress to feel its soft material. “Too beautiful.”

Annie adjusts the dress on the table, which makes Martha notice the dangerously low neckline and the high slit on the side of the skirt. “Do you want to try it on?” she asks. 

Martha nods and picks up the dress and takes it into her bedroom, pulling the curtain across once she’s inside. She pulls the old dress she’s currently wearing off over her head and tosses it onto her bed, its age and dullness showing in comparison to the one Annie has given her. Once the new one is on she doesn’t dare look in the mirror; if she doesn’t look then she can ignore the reality of it all. “It fits!” she calls out, and pulls the curtain aside so she can show Annie. “Does it look alright?”

Annie watches Martha for a moment, her face softening, and then she moves closer, reaching out with one hand to pull the skirt of the dress down a little. It shifts the whole thing down to make the neckline even more revealing, much to Martha’s dismay. With the other hand she moves Martha’s hair over onto one shoulder with one deft swoop.

“It looks perfect on you,” Annie almost whispers. “Even if it fitted me you’d still look better in it. Don’t wear too much makeup, they like it when you look a bit younger.”

Martha glances down at herself, and a wash of reality comes over her. “Oh, Annie, what if I can’t go through with it? I haven’t even slept with Joseph, let alone a total fucking stranger.” She feels her eyes glaze over again, but does her best to restrain the tears. 

Annie holds Martha again, squeezing her shoulder. “I’ll keep you safe, I promise,” she says. “Listen, the main thing you need to remember is that if a Blinder wants you, you offer them a discount, and if it’s a Shelby there’s no charge. Alright?” 

Martha silently nods. “Thank you so much,” she whispers.

“I’ll meet you under the canal bridge at eight o’ clock, alright?” Annie says, and takes it upon herself to open the door. She steps out into the hallway, and as the cool draft in the flat grows stronger Martha can’t help but wonder what the fuck she’s gotten herself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I promise the Shelbys will be making an appearance very soon.
> 
> Just a quick heads up, the next chapter will contain descriptions of physical and attempted sexual assault so if that is something you're sensitive to I would recommend that you don't read the next chapter.
> 
> Please feel free to leave kudos or a comment, it always makes my day
> 
> Clara x


	3. 'what other choice did she have?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this at the end of the last chapter but I just want to make it clear again that this chapter contains descriptions of sexual and physical violence, and I would recommend that you proceed with caution. Aside from that I hope you enjoy this chapter!

15th March 1924

Martha pulls her borrowed coat close to her body in an attempt to fight off the crisp night chill that lingers on the air from winter even though it’s supposed to be spring now. This must be one of the worst things about Annie’s job aside from, you know, having to fuck strangers. The coat is a little large, and the borrowed boots rub against her heels. Every step she takes makes her stomach churn more and more until she feels that she might keel over vomiting.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have agreed to this. 

But what other choice did she have? If she doesn’t do it she won’t be able to pay Mrs Collins and then she’ll get kicked out and lose everything.

So she carries on trudging down Watery Lane towards the bridge where Annie will be waiting for her. The streets are quiet tonight save for the few prostituted brave enough to frequent the lamp-lit streets and then men waiting until no policemen are around before approaching them. Martha is surprised by how few coppers are actually around, especially since it’s a Saturday. 

She feels a lump form in her throat as she realises that she’s about to become one of these women, but takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to quell it. Martha turns onto Garrison Lane and the canal bridge finally comes into view. Not far to go now. Annie definitely won’t be there on time and Martha’s early anyway, so she slows her pace. Her father had always warned her against going to the canal bridge alone at night, but she doesn’t have the luxury of a choice anymore.

There’s only a few more alleyways and The Garrison to walk past now and then she’ll practically be there. She hasn’t been down here since before the funeral for fear of seeing the Shelbys again, but you don’t have to see them to notice the mark they leave on every little nook and cranny. A trail of peaky boys stride towards the pub and enter, and as they fling the door open the sounds of drunken cries and loud conversations pour out into the grim streets. 

Martha stops and leans against a wall to watch as the final peaky boy saunters into the pub and slams the door behind him, the joy silenced once more. She wonders if Thomas Shelby is in there tonight, drinking with his family. As her mind wanders back to the funeral she feels a sweaty palm grasp her wrist, plant the other hand at her waist and then drag her into the grimey darkness of an alleyway.

The light from the street lamps fades, and Martha’s too shocked by what’s happening to cry out for help. Not that it would make much difference anyway with how deserted the streets are tonight. Martha knows that even the police don’t like getting involved when whores are attacked. 

She struggles to catch her breath as the rough hands shove her against the brick wall and roam her body without warning, clutching at her waist and chest. “How much are you charging then, my girl?” a gruff voice growls from the darkness. As Martha’s eyes adjust to the light she can just about make out a large man looming over her, his hat obscuring his eyes. He’s at least a foot taller than her and built like a brick, with broad shoulders and a solid torso. He must be at least fifteen years older than her. 

He adjusts his hands, resting one at her hip and the other on her collarbone, stroking the skin that’s on show thanks to the low cut dress with his calloused thumb. Martha’s voice still hasn’t returned, so all she can do is shake her head and pray that he’ll let go of her. He doesn’t. “Hurry up and name your price, I’ve got to get back to the pub in a bit.” 

Martha finally finds her voice, but it trembles and returns along with tears. “No,” she stammers, her entire body shaking. “No, please let go of me, sir.” While all his focus is on her face, she locks both hands around the man’s wrist, attempting to peel his hand away from her skin, but it won’t budge no matter how hard she tries to rid herself of him. The same thing happens when she tries with his other hand. He’s got her cornered, trapped in the alley where it’s too dark for a passerby on the street to notice what’s lurking in the shadows. “Please, just let me go,” she begs as she attempts to kick and punch at him, her limbs too feeble and weak to do any sort of damage. “I’m not a-”

Her words are cut off as he grabs at her neck with rough hands, his jagged nails moulding their way into her skin. “I’m not used to whores who fight back,” he whispers as he leans in so close that their faces almost touch, his voice raspy and breath reeking of booze. He plants sloppy kisses down her neck and lets his face linger. Martha doesn’t dare look at him. “Maybe you’re worth a bit extra,” he says. “There ain’t many young ones left in Small Heath.

“I’m not a whore!” Martha finally finds verbal strength, and continues to try and find some way of hurting him so she can go and meet Annie. She’s probably wondering where she is; Martha can’t remember the last time she was late for something. The man isn’t holding her arms down so she punches at his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Martha’s about to try again when she sees his face boil with rage, and he removes his hand from her jaw only to return it moments later as he smacks her across the face, the impact making her whole body jolt to the side. 

Martha goes to bring a hand up to her injured face, but before she can the man’s glide down her body to her wrists, and he drags her arms up above her head and pins them against the wall. Her attempts to resist him have no impact. “And why else would a pretty little thing be wearing such lovely clothes?” He glances down at her fur coat, and then plants wet kisses along her jaw, bringing his mouth down her neck. “Take off your coat,” he whispers into her skin.

She’s too weak to fight back now, and too frightened of what he’ll do to her if she refuses. The only sounds she’s able to make are those of shaking breaths as the tears roll down her cheeks and she trembles from head to toe. Nothing will change his mind now that he’s decided he wants her, she knows that, and when he momentarily releases her from his grasp she sets about removing her coat, leaving her bare skin exposed to the chill of the wind and the grotesque sensation of his touch. He takes the coat from her and tosses it to the side, letting it fall in the mud and God knows what else. 

The man takes her wrists again and positions them back against the wall. Martha knows they’ll be littered with scratches and bruises tomorrow. She can’t tell whether her goosebumps are a result of the cold or from the fear that catapults through her body. 

“Now,” he says, staring her down, “are you going to stop with this silliness and do your fucking job?” He takes both her wrists in one broad hand and cups her face with the other, his mouth now dangerously close to hers. 

Martha takes a deep breath to steady herself before replying. “Yes, sir,” she eventually chokes out. “I’ll do whatever you want.” She watches a devilish grin grow on his face and after that there’s no stopping him. His mouth travels down to the now-exposed neckline of Martha’s dress. He’s let go of her arms now, so she holds onto his shoulders in an attempt to keep her balance in her ill-fitting boots, even though touching him repulses her. 

In his drunken disarray, he takes her touch as a sign to go further, and he skims his hands down to the slit in her dress and grabs at her thigh, his mouth still on her chest. Between kisses he shrugs off his jacket and shrugs off his jacket and throws it on the floor alongside Martha’s coat, revealing a shirt and waistcoat to her. He pauses for a moment, much to Martha’s relief, and meets her eyes. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” All her relief fades instantly. His eyes are still fixated on her face, filled to the brim with primal instinct. She knows he isn’t going to take no for an answer. 

She reluctantly rests her hands on his chest and brings her mouth to his neck, the contact making her shudder. As Martha peppers his neck with kisses she hears his breath hitch, and his hand snakes further and further up her thigh. He too caught up in his own little world to notice that she’s still crying. 

In an attempt to block out the way his breath quickens in her ear and the foul scent of alcohol that clings to every inch of him, Martha leans her head a little to catch a glimpse of the dim light coming from The Garrison across the street. If she focuses hard enough then she can just about make out the dark painted exterior and amber glow peeping through the frosted windows. It’s all she can focus on as the ordeal goes on, and the man’s lust grows stronger. He grabs and gropes at her body, whispering commands for her to remove his tie and begin undoing the buttons of his shirt. The only thing she can do is obey in silence. 

Martha tells herself that he’ll grow bored of her in a few minutes, and then he’ll let her go and she can go and find Annie. But what if all of the men are like this? Going to the bridge is the last thing she wants to do. She has to remind herself that if she doesn’t do this, she won’t survive. 

The man doesn’t grow bored, and only encourages Martha to continue. She’s surprised he’s made no attempts to remove her dress, but knows it’s most likely only a matter of time before he does. To him she’s just another whore. 

As she keeps her focus on the light, Martha notices footsteps echoing along the cobbles of Garrison Lane, growing louder and louder as they approach the alley. “Keep going, it won’t be a policeman,” the man insists as Martha pulls her head away from him so she can hear the footsteps better. She watches as a shadow appears on the wall. 

Without thinking Martha screams as loud as she can, her voice reverberating around the alley and into the street beyond. When the footsteps don’t get quicker she’s terrified that the passerby has ignored her, but they grow louder, and Martha finds herself praying for a policeman to rescue her. She doesn’t hear any shouting or the shrill sound of a whistle, and as the shadow shrinks she sees another man step into the alley, his face obscured by his cap and the darkness engulfing him.

“You stupid bitch!” Martha’s attacker sneers, and he tosses her to the floor like a ragdoll he’s tired of playing with. She lands hard on her arm, her coat barely breaking her fall. A throbbing pain courses through her body and her elbow stings from where it has scraped the grimey floor. She knows there will be a similar scratch on her face and her neck will be covered in bruises by tomorrow morning. 

The world spins when Martha attempts to glance up as she hears groans and shouts of pain coming from her attacker. He’s been shoved against the wall by this new man, who is shorter and more slender but still manages to keep a hold on her attacker. His face is bloody and bruised and he makes no attempts to free himself from this new man’s grasp. 

The speak in hushed tones, so Martha can’t work out the identity of this stranger. When she catches her attacker murmur the words “Sorry, Mr Shelby,” she’s shaking again. Of all the people in Small Heath, of course it’s a Shelby who’s come to her rescue. Mr Shelby, whichever brother he is, releases the attacker and Martha watches as he bends down to retrieve his jacket and then dashes from the alley. When she turns back, Thomas Shelby is crouched beside her, holding out a hand. 

She shrinks away from him and stands up on her own, swaying a little as she reaches to pick up her coat and wraps it around her shoulder. When Thomas tries to rest a hand on her back to support her, she moves away again and leans her hand on the damp wall where he had held her attacker just moments ago. “Are you hurt?” Thomas asks. It’s a stupid question to ask because she clearly is, but still she shakes her head in response. The last thing she wants right now is to be in his company. “Come with me, you’ll be safe, I promise,” Thomas says.

“No, I need to… I need to…” Martha can’t finish the sentence, can’t even look up at Thomas. She’s still fixated on the glow of the pub.

“You need to be somewhere safe and out of the cold. Please, come with me,” Thomas says. His grey hat has dipped down, obscuring his eyes and Martha is suddenly thankful that she can’t see his full face when she eventually looks at him. 

Thomas doesn’t wait for a further response before he starts moving towards the street, and Martha has no choice but to follow sheepishly behind. When she glances down to the hand she was holding the wall with, she sees that it’s covered in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter, where do you think Tommy is going to take Martha? Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts. Thank you for your support, don't forget to leave kudos if you enjoyed it and the next chapter should be up on Tuesday!
> 
> Clara x


	4. 'I don't want your charity'

15th March 1924

Thomas leads Martha out into the street, not bothering to turn around and check that she’s following him. Martha wonders whether the power has gotten to his head and the possibility that people might disobey him no longer exists. She could quite easily turn on her heel right now and run down the lane away from him, but which way would she go? Would she go to the canal bridge or would she return to home and hope that her problems will just fade into nothingness? She realises that it’s the latter, and carries on following him. 

He stops outside the door of one of the terraced houses at the opposite end of Watery Lane to where her flat is. Martha watches as he reaches into his coat pocket and retrieves a rusty key which he slots into the door. Once it’s open he holds it so Martha can step into the house, but lets it slam shut, making her jump. 

There’s always talk about Thomas living in some mansion in the countryside nowadays, and so Martha expected she might find a more lavish interior. Thomas switches on a light, and Martha isn’t surprised that they’ve had electricity installed. She sees how dated the decor is, as if it hasn’t been decorated perhaps since before the war. The colours of the wallpaper have faded opposite the small window, and the room is filled with dark furniture along with the odd trinket. Martha even spots a horseshoe framed about the fireplace. 

She’s led further into the house and then Thomas stops outside a green velvet curtain. He draws it back to reveal a large door coated in peeling paint. With another key he unlocks them and pushes them open, gesturing for Martha to step into this new room with the tilt of his head. It makes her realise that he hasn’t said a word since they were in the alley. 

They enter a musty room that carries the scent of whiskey and cigarettes, with tables running down the middle and books and boxes scattered everywhere. There’s even a bar in the corner with shelves of alcohol behind it. Martha knew that the Shelbys ran an illegal bookmaking business, everyone knows, but she had imagined it to be a bit more formal given how important they are around Small Heath nowadays. All you have to do is mention the name ‘Shelby’ and a whole room will fall silent. 

Martha follows Thomas across the room almost to the end, where he stops in front of yet another door at the side of the room, just before a set of steps that lead to a raised platform at the end of the room. He pushes the door open and leans against the frame as Martha enters a shabby office. It’s probably about the same size as the main room of her flat, and far less extravagantly decorated than she had imagined. There’s only a desk, two chairs and a cabinet.

“This is my cousin’s office,” Thomas explains, as if hearing Martha’s mental remarks. “We’ve not had it refurbished yet.” Martha says nothing in reply as Thomas walks around the desk to the cabinet and picks up a decanter of whiskey as well as two crystal glasses. As he turns back he nods to the chair that she’s standing near. They both sit. “Whiskey?” he asks, and Martha nods partly because she needs something to calm her nerves, but mainly because she’s too afraid to say no. 

Thomas fills the glasses halfway and slides one across the polished wood to Martha, and then turns on a desk lamp to illuminate the room. She takes a sip, the harsh taste stinging the back of her throat. She’s not unaccustomed to drinking, but whiskey isn’t her typical poison. Maybe she should’ve said no after all.

She watches as Thomas places a cigarette between his lips and lights it. He doesn’t offer her one. He takes a drag, the smoke blowing straight into Martha’s face. “You’re Edward Yates’ daughter, if I remember rightly. Mary, isn’t it?” 

“Martha,” she quickly corrects, her body trembling. “Not Mary.”

“I apologise, and I’m sorry for your loss,” Thomas says, barely glancing at Martha. He removes the cigarette from his mouth to drink his whiskey, only to replace it moments later. “I think both you and I know you’ve actually been hurt very badly.”

Martha lifts a hand to her cheek, the broken skin stinging at the sudden contact. She starts removing coat before she remembers what she’s wearing, and she’s suddenly self conscious, but the dimness of the light conceals her a little, and she lets the coat hang on the chair. When she glances down she sees her wrists are red raw from where her attacker had gripped them, her right arm is bleeding from where she fell and bruises are already beginning to form. “I didn’t realise it would be that bad,” she says shakily. Thomas’ face softens just enough for it to be noticeable. 

“I’ll get you a cloth and some water,” Thomas says, rising from his seat.

“You don’t have to-” Martha begins to protest, but he’s already left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. She’s half-surprised he didn’t lock her in there; it seems like the kind of thing he’d do. 

Now that she’s alone Martha can’t help but burst into tears, the recent events failing to leave her mind. She can’t even have a proper look at the office because her eyes are obscured with tears. Instead she downs her whiskey to try and distract herself, and she coughs at the harsh taste. But it works in the sense that it stops her crying, even though a few stray tears remain on her face when Thomas returns to the room.

Her body aches as she turns to watch him stride into the room, carrying a porcelain bowl filled with water and a small cloth. He places both on the desk in front of her. “Thank you,” Martha says, her voice still weak. She wipes away her tears awaiting a response from Thomas that never comes.

She picks up the cloth and dips the corner into the water and then holds it against her cheek. Its coolness stings her skin and she has to put her free hand to her mouth to stop herself swearing from the pain. A couple more tears slip from her eyes, and she wipes them away quickly, not wanting Thomas to see her cry. It’s bad enough that he’s seeing her in this state in the first place.

“How old are you, then? Nineteen? Eighteen?” Thomas asks, finally breaking the silence. 

Martha can’t meet his eyes. “Sixteen, Mr Shelby,” she tells him. When she eventually looks up, Thomas has his eyebrows raised and he cradles his glass.

“And what does your mother have to say about her sixteen year old daughter whoring herself out on the streets of Small Heath?”

“She’s dead, Mr Shelby,” Martha says, not thinking about her words. “If she wasn’t then I wouldn’t have been out tonight trying to get money for my rent, and now I still can’t pay because I was attacked before I even got to the canal bridge.” The words escape her in a torrent of anger, and Thomas lets out a sigh.”

“How were you intending to earn money, then?”

The question stings Martha. “I’m sure a man of your capabilities can work that out from what I’m wearing, Mr Shelby,” she shoots back.

Thomas takes a sip of his drink. “Maybe I shouldn’t have given you that whiskey,” he mutters just loud enough for Martha to hear.

“I can handle myself,” she says, her eyes narrowing. She wants to get out of here, get down to the canal bridge and get this all over and done with. Then it can just become a distant memory that she doesn’t need to remember ever again.

“You were attacked less than half an hour ago, and if I hadn’t been passing he would’ve done a lot worse to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to fucking save me!” Martha yells, regretting it instantly. Thomas sighs again. “I’m sorry, Mr Shelby.”

“Why is it that you can’t afford to pay your rent, Martha?” Thomas asks.

Martha takes a deep breath, readying herself for the tears she’s scared will arrive. “I’m a junior secretary at the BSA. About a month before my father died my hours and wages were cut. It didn’t bother me at the time because we had enough money to support the both of us. I only really took the job to keep me busy.” She pauses for a moment to sip her whiskey. “But then after he died I had to move into a flat on my own and I don’t earn enough to cover my rent.”

Thomas pulls opens a drawer in the desk and reaches inside. Martha tenses at his movements, not knowing if he’ll reveal a gun. But instead he pulls out a wad of bank notes and a bag of coins, and she releases a breath of relief. “How short are you on rent?” Thomas asks as he places the money on the desk.

“I don’t want your charity,” Martha says, scoffing at the idea of taking money from him. 

“How short are you on rent?” he repeats, more assertive this time. Martha says nothing, contemplating whether or not she should accept whatever money he’s about to give her. She knows deep down that she can’t face the streets again when she didn’t even make it to the canal bridge tonight. What other choices does she have if she accept the money from Thomas?

“Four shillings, but Mr Shelby, I-”

“No need to be so formal, Martha. Call me Tommy,” he interrupts without even looking up from the money he’s counting.

“Tommy,” Martha begins again. She’s startled by his desire for her to be so informal. “I can’t just take money from you.”

“Well, what would you think about working for me? My secretary always says she could use some help and I’ll pay you more than what you’re getting down at the BSA.”

As Martha’s about to reply the door bursts open. “There you are, Tommy, Arthur thought you was in trouble when you didn’t show up at The Garrison so he sent me to look for you and…” the voice fades to silence as Martha turns around, and she sees a boy around her age standing in the doorway, his eyes drifting between her and Thomas. He’s tall and slender and has the same piercing blue eyes as Tommy. “Who’s this, then?” The boy gazes in Martha’s direction, looking her up and down. She pulls her coat back on to cover herself up and he turns back to Tommy. 

“Finn, this is Martha Yates. You remember how John, Arthur and I attended her father’s funeral last month?” The mention of her father causes fresh tears to form in Martha’s eyes, but she blinks them away. “Martha, this is my youngest brother, Finn.”

Finn smiles at Martha but seems hurt when she doesn’t return it. She sees no reason why she should have to smile at him. “Are you going to come over to the pub now, Tom?” Finn asks his brother.

“I will, and I need you to escort Miss Yates home for me.” Tommy picks up a pile of coins that he has counted out and places them on the desk in front of Martha. “This is enough for your rent and a little extra if you need it. Are you going to take me up on my offer?”

Martha picks up the coins and slides them into her coat pocket as she stands from the chair. “I’ll think about it, Mr Shelby,” she says.

“I thought we agreed you could call me Tommy, eh?” he replies, the hint of a smile gracing his face but disappearing almost as soon as it arrives. 

Martha mirrors his actions and then begins walking towards the door. It’s still ajar from when Finn came in. “Goodbye, Tommy. And thank you.” Finn moves towards the threshold of the door and Martha follows him back out into the betting den. They leave by a different door, opposite the office, which Martha guesses is what customers use as they come and go. The biting wind hits her as they come back out onto Watery Lane and her coat does little to fight off the sudden chill.

“So, where is it I’m taking you home to?” Finn asks, breaking the silence between them. He turns to Martha as he speaks and smiles again, but Martha can’t bring herself to smile back at him. She doesn’t exactly have many reasons to be smiling at the moment.

“Number 37,” she replies, starting to walk past him. “It’s just at the end of the road. She doesn’t look at him as they walk, but the sound of his footsteps beside her is oddly comforting. 

As they walk Martha can feel Finn’s gaze on her every so often, and she does her best to keep looking ahead each time he does. “What was it that Tommy offered you?” he asks as they walk, but she ignores his voice. All she can focus on for now is getting back to her flat. When she doesn’t reply he carries on talking as if they’re old friends. “You know,” he says casually, “I always thought Tommy had a rule about not using whores under a certain age.”

Martha’s hand lashes out before she can process what’s happening and she slaps Finn hard across the cheek. “I’m not his fucking whore, you peaky bastard!” Martha yells as Finn recoils. He brings a hand up to his face and swears under his breath. Martha doesn’t care if the whole of Small Heath or the whole of Birmingham hears her yelling. Before she can process what she’s done she’s running down Watery Lane towards her flat. She can barely even see where she’s going because she’s crying again, her sobs strangled by the feeling that her lungs are going to explode. All she knows is that she has to get away from Finn, away from anyone who’s a Peaky Blinder. 

Finn calls her name from behind and Martha hears his footsteps growing faster and nearer, so she follows suit and speeds up. But he’s faster than her, and by the time she’s reached the front door to her flat he’s caught up and is standing beside her, the two of them struggling to catch their breath. 

Finn is the first one to break the silence between them. “I’m sorry,” he says once his breathing has returned to normal. “I’m really sorry, Martha, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Martha wants to answer with some sarcastic comment, but she’s still struggling to breathe. With each breath her lungs burn, and she has to lean against the wall to stop herself toppling over. “I’m sorry I hit you,” she finally says. There aren’t many street lamps at this end of the road, so she can’t tell how badly she’s hurt him. 

“It’s alright, I deserved it.” He stares down at her tear-stained face and reaches out to place a hand on Martha’s shoulder. She wants to shy away from his touch, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Finn looks closer at her face and neck. “Did somebody hurt you?” he asks. “You’re covered in bruises.”

Martha can’t find the words to explain to him what happened; the memory of the events is too raw for her to comprehend that it all really happened. So she simply nods and cries, and she finds herself being drawn into Finn’s arms. As he holds her close, she hates that she never wants him to let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading this chapter and thank you as always to those who have left kudos! It always makes my day :)
> 
> What do you think of Martha's first encounter with Finn? Let me know in the comments, I really enjoyed writing this chapter.
> 
> The next chapter should be up on Friday 15/1/21 so I'll see you then!
> 
> Clara x


	5. 'the king of Small Heath'

16th March 1924

Martha doesn’t sleep when she gets home, or at least she doesn’t remember sleeping. At each hour the bells of St Martins church echo through the streets, and each time they ring she buries herself deeper beneath her sheets, determined to block out the world and keep herself cocooned forever. But as much as she tries, she can’t stop the events of what happened replaying in her head. 

Even when she’s out of bed the next morning and watching the world go by from the safety of her father’s armchair, she can’t block it all out. She can still feel the man’s grip on her and his foul breath on her face. Her skin is now adorned by patches of black and blue, and somehow the one man that had scared her the most before it happened was the one who came to her rescue. 

But he’s not the only Shelby she can’t stop thinking about. When she was with Finn last night she allowed herself to become so vulnerable so quickly and just she can’t understand why. One minute she was hitting him and swearing in his face, and the next she was sobbing in his arms. Of all people she let a fucking Shelby comfort her. She let him cradle her while she cried despite knowing what his family is capable of. They can destroy bloodlines with the deft swing of razor-encrusted caps, charm horses to make them do their bidding, and control the police with the persuasion of a couple of coins. They’re the royal family of the kingdom of Small Heath, and Thomas Shelby is the king. 

Martha gazes out of the window, and sees that the street is still teeming with life. People work on Sundays a lot more than they used to nowadays to make ends meet, and after the war so many men lost their faith in God that entire families stopped going to church. Martha and her father only went at Christmas and Easter after the war. She sits and watches the smoke billow from chimneys atop the houses across the road, no doubt from roaring fires in their cozy living rooms. Martha’s fire is burning too, but does little to fight off the chill that the flat seems to consistently carry. 

There’s a little girl across the street, perhaps no older than six, stroking the horse that pulls the cart of the milkman. She giggles as the horse licks her hand in search of a sugar cube, but her smile disappears as she spots a dark figure striding down the street. Thomas Shelby.

As he passes Martha’s window, men look up from their work to tip their hats, and women and children clear the path to make way for the King of Small Heath. Just like a king, Tommy pays little attention to their efforts to please him and doesn’t make eye contact with any of them, instead carrying on down the street as if it belongs to him. Martha wouldn’t be surprised if he’d paid to acquire the cobbles. 

Something urges her to stand and cross the room to the window to watch him walk down the road. All the way down as far as Martha can see, people scuttle out of the way so he can pass. Hell, even police officers step aside and tip their hats. By the time he’s reached his end of Watery Lane he’s become a small grey blob in the distance, but Martha can just about see him unlock the door to his house and step inside. The street returns to normal once he’s vanished from sight. 

But being out of sight doesn’t mean he’s gone from Martha’s mind. She can still hear his voice when he gave her that offer last night. 

“Well, what would you think about working for me? My secretary always says she could use some help and I’ll pay you more than what you’re getting down at the BSA.”

Martha plants both palms on the windowsill and lets out a sigh. Accepting Tommy’s offer would be she would never have to worry about her rent again, and last night can just become a distant memory. But she doesn’t know if she can bring herself to work for a family who have killed, lied and stolen to make their way to the top. And yet there seems to be no choice. It’s either work for Thomas Shelby or become a whore, and after last night the former is the only one she knows she can do. 

She sighs again, and walks over to pick up her borrowed coat from where she draped it over one of the dining chairs last night. It seems too nice to wear out, but she’ll need to make a good first impression if she’s going to the Shelby house. Besides, the collar of the coat is lined with thick fur, and it does a good job of masking her injuries. It conceals most of the wound to her face too, but Martha knows that people will notice it if they look close enough. 

Before she leaves she glances over to Annie’s dress, which lies crumpled on the floor next to the armchair. She should really go and hang it up so it’s not creased when she gives it back, but even the thought of touching it makes Martha feel nauseous. So she ignores it and pulls her door open and steps out into the hallway, checking the door handle twice once she’s locked it. Then she opens the main door and steps out into the street.

The walk from one end of Watery Lane to the other isn’t a long one, but Martha’s body aches from head to toe, so she walks slowly and watches as the ordinary lives of ordinary people continue effortlessly. She wonders how everything can be so normal when last night was so horrific.

Soon she’s reached the house that Thomas took her to last night, and she knocks lightly on the door. There’s a light on inside, but nobody answers. So she knocks again, a little louder this time, and after a couple of minutes the door opens a crack and Finn’s bright eyes appear cold and suspicious in the gap. They soften in recognition, and he opens the door fully. “Alright, Martha?” he says, but he doesn’t step back to let her inside. 

“As alright as I can be after last night, I suppose.” Finn winces a little at the mention of last night. Now they’re in daylight Martha can see the faint bruising on his pale cheek from where she had hit him, and a wave of guilt washes over her. “Is Tommy there?” she asks. “I need to speak to him.

Finn glances back into the house for a moment before he replies to her. Martha can hear faint voices deep in discussion, but they’re too far away for her to hear what they’re saying. “They’re having a family meeting in the betting den, but you can wait here until they’re done if you want?”

Martha opens her mouth to reply, but then she hears a voice call out, presumably from the betting den. “Finn! Whoever it is to fuck off until after the meeting.” Finn rolls his eyes at the sound of the voice. 

“I should come back later,” Martha says, taking a step back. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience.” 

“You won’t be, don’t worry,” Finn insists. “Please just come in, they’ll be done soon.” He turns and moves further into the house, and Martha follows him into the living room, closing the door behind her. The door through to the betting den has been left open a crack, and as she steps into the house the conversation grows louder, but not quite loud enough to hear the subject matter. Finn takes a seat at the dark wooden table, and Martha sits beside him.

“How come you’re not in this family meeting, then?” she asks him as she takes her seat to wait. It feels like waiting at the gates of hell.

Martha watches Finn lower his head a little before answering. “They only let me stay for the first half of meetings, and I’m lucky if they let me stay at all sometimes. Aunt Pol says that once I’m 18 I’ll be allowed to stay for the whole of meetings, but I don’t believe her. I always feel so useless waiting around.”

Martha’s not sure who this Aunt Pol is, but she sounds like the sensible sort to her. “Well, from what I’ve heard about your family I’m not surprised that they try to protect you,” she says. 

“And what exactly have you heard? I know you haven’t exactly had the best experiences with our sort so far,” Finn says, and Martha raises her eyebrows, urging him to explain himself. “Tommy told me what happened to you last night.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Everything.”

Martha is silent for a moment, trying to formulate some kind of response. All she can say is “Oh.”

“It really surprised me,” Finn says. “I always thought of David Franklin as a good man.”

Somehow knowing the name of the man makes it all worse for Martha. It gives him humanity. She feels sick at the thought of him being out there somewhere among the cobbled lanes. He probably has a wife and children who are unaware that he’s assaulted her and most likely others too. How many women and girls, prostitutes or not, has he taken advantage of?

Footsteps approaching from the betting den interrupt her thoughts, and she hears Tommy’s voice call out from beyond the door. “Finn, who was at the door?” The door swings open and in walks Tommy, his head still adorned by his hat despite being indoors. “Hello, Martha,” he says as he closes the door behind him. “You alright?”

“A lot better, thank you,” she says, knowing full well it’s a lie. Her entire body has been sore since the moment she woke up this morning. “I’m here about the job offer,” she quickly adds.

Something similar to a smile grows on Tommy’s face but it disappears almost as soon as it arrives. “Accepting it, are you?”

“I don’t really have much choice,” she tells him. “So yes, but I’m not sure how they’re going to take it down at the BSA.”

Tommy leans against the wall. “I have contacts there. I’ll explain things to them for you. Who’s your supervisor there?”

“Jonathan Clark,” Martha tells him.

Tommy nods. “He’s a good man, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Another voice calls out from beyond the betting den door. “Tommy! Who the fuck are you talking to?” It’s the same voice that called out to Finn earlier.

Tommy glances back to the door and rolls his eyes. “My brother has no fucking patience,” he mutters, but loud enough for Finn and Martha to hear. “I suppose we’d better go and sort out your contract of employment then, eh?”

Before Martha has had time to process it all, Tommy has opened the door to the betting den, and she and Finn follow him into the room. It’s hazy with smoke but at least now it’s daylight Martha can actually see it all properly. The source of the smoke is the cigarettes in the hands of most of the people in the room, all crowded around the central table. They’ve all glanced up from some sort of paperwork resting on the table, and Martha feels their eyes drift to her as her hands tremble in anticipation. She glances to Finn momentarily, and he offers her a reassuring smile. Martha recognises two of the men as Arthur and John, the other Shelby brothers, but she can’t put names to any of the other vaguely familiar faces. 

The door has creaked shut behind them, and when it finally shuts Thomas clears his throat. “I would like you all to meet Miss Martha Yates, who will be joining us at Shelby Company Limited as a junior secretary as of tomorrow.”

The man that Martha recognises as Arthur Shelby, the eldest of the brothers, is the first to break the silence that follows. “Why the sudden need for a junior secretary, Tom?” he says. When he speaks each mottle and scar in his face is exposed, but that doesn’t mask his seemingly soft expression.

“Arthur, as I’ve just said before Martha arrived we need to be focussing more on legitimate business, and we can’t do that if we don’t have more people working on the legitimate side. That way, Michael will be more efficient,”- a young man in his early twenties glances up and nods -”and Lizzie will have someone to help her out on the books.” A woman around Tommy’s age acknowledges this with a smile.

Arthur nods as he removes the remnants of a cigarette from his mouth and extinguishes it in an ashtray on the table, which sits alongside bottles of whiskey and a few glasses. They seem to drink the stuff as if it’s water. “Care for a drink, love?” he asks Martha.

“Arthur! She’s too young to be drinking whiskey,” an older woman says before Martha can answer herself, and Martha is almost taken aback when she looks and sees the elegance that this woman carries. Her hair falls in delicate curls that frame her face, with deep eyes that seem to hold a thousand secrets.

“Polly, she’s the same age as Finn and we let him drink whiskey,” Tommy counters as he glances down to Martha. “You can have some whiskey if you want,” he tells her, and Polly rolls her eyes.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Martha replies as she shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. It’s getting awfully stuffy in this room.

Tommy clears his throat. “Right, I’ll go and fetch you a contract,” he says, and walks around the table through another door Martha hadn’t noticed last night. When it swings open she sees that it leads to a corridor; that must be where the other offices are. 

Finn moves to sit down, and Martha is stood alone, isolated. “Do you want anything else to drink?” Polly asks her, smiling. “Tea?”

Martha returns her smile and shakes her head. “No, thank you.” Would it have been more polite to just accept the whiskey in the first place? The kindness is all a little startling, but then again she’s not exactly sure what she expected from them all, especially after last night. 

“You can go and hang your coat up on the rack if you want, it’s getting a bit warm in here,” a young woman sitting at the table pipes up. “I’m Ada, by the way.”

Martha has been noticing the heat in the room creeping higher and higher as time has passed, and she must look like a right fool keeping this great furry coat on inside. So she does as Ada says and goes over to the rack on the wall to remove her coat, only remembering her injuries as she holds it in her hands. That’s when Polly gasps. 

“Jesus Christ,” she exclaims, her hand at her face. “What the bloody hell happened to you?”

“Stop a man getting his own way, did ya?” The voice comes from a woman stood at the back of the room, her head topped with wild curls and eyes surrounded by dark makeup. Standing beside her is the other brother from the funeral, John, and he smirks at her remark, almost letting his cigar fall from his mouth. Martha feels her cheeks burn. 

“Esme, shut your mouth for once. We’ve heard enough from you today, alright?” Arthur says, turning to glare at Esme. 

John returns this glare and the smirk drops from his face. He removes the cigar from his mouth. “Don’t fucking talk to my wife like that,” he retaliates, and begins to prowl towards Arthur. Martha’s eyes dart between the two of them, neither brother backing down, and she chews at her lip as her eyes move back and forth.

Before anything can happen, Polly steps in between the brothers, much to Martha’s relief. “Enough, you two! We’ve had enough scraps these past few weeks.”

“Yeah, and who’s fault is that, eh?” John says, refusing to back away. “Tommy’s acting like he’s captain of the bloody cavalry these days.”

The door to the corridor creaks open again, and as John speaks Tommy re-emerges. “Oh, am I, John?” he says as he enters with a pile of papers in his hand. “Let’s not discuss this now, eh?” He gives John a knowing look, and then places the papers down on the table, along with a fountain pen that he removes from his pocket. “Martha?”

All eyes are on Martha as she moves closer to the table and begins to leaf through the contract. It all seems to be normal, stating working hours and pay and things like that. The pay is good, very good, in fact. It seems too normal to be real. Martha double checks it all as quickly as she can, not wanting to take up too much of the Shelbys time. As she goes to pick up the pen she spots John still glaring in the back corner alongside Esme, smoke billowing from the cigar between his lips. 

Martha flicks to the back of the contract, and sees two lines. Thomas has signed on one, his signature consisting of looping letters, and the other has been left blank for her. The pen makes contact with the paper, and Martha forces her hand to form a shaky signature. She dreads to think what her father would be saying if he knew what she was doing. 

As she places the pen down she looks up to see Tommy pouring two glasses of whiskey, and he holds one out to her. She has no desire to drink but refusing it would just be rude, so she takes the glass from him and they clink them together. “Welcome to Shelby Company Limited, Miss Martha Yates.” They drink from their glasses and the others smile, and Martha smiles back to mask the fear she can feel brewing inside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no going back for Martha now! What did you think of the family's reaction to her? Let me know in the comments. 
> 
> I'm not sure if updates will be as regular over the coming weeks because online school is taking up a lot of my time but I'm still trying to write as much as I can.
> 
> Anyway, don't forget to leave kudos if you enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you soon!
> 
> Clara x


	6. 'they're dangerous people'

16th March 1924

Martha’s newly signed contract stares her in the face as she attempts to drink her whiskey as quickly as she can, her hand shaking as it grips the crystal glass. Her throat burns, but as she sips she becomes accustomed to its harsh taste. It’s not as if she’s never had a drink before; most kids around here have had their first drink by the time they’ve turned thirteen, if not earlier. She can’t help but keep glancing down to the contract and each time she does she’s reminded of what she’s just become a part of.

That reminder lingers when she looks up and is met with the faces of the Shelby family. They all look to her, as if expecting her to say something, but no words seem to be enough. All she can do is turn to Tommy and say, “Thank you, I’m really grateful.” 

“You’re very welcome,” he replies. Like last night there’s that hint of a smile, but moments later it’s vanished. “I’m sure you’ll get used to the ways of the company and fit in well.”

“And if not, you know where the door is!” Arthur jokes, and everyone laughs as they drink and smoke, even John and Esme. Martha smiles, a genuine smile this time, and she catches Arthur wink at her. She hadn’t expected him to be kind when she’d seen him watching Tommy like a hawk at her father’s funeral. None of them are anything like she expected, well, except for John and Esme. 

“You’re welcome to stick around here for a while, and if you want you can join us at The Garrison this afternoon,” Polly says, her eyes aglow under the sunlight creeping in through the windows. 

Being welcomed with such open arms so quickly seems strange to Martha, but she passes it off as nothing more than Polly being polite. “I actually have some errands to run, but I’ll definitely come to the pub later. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.” There’s an element of truth to it; she does need to go somewhere, needs to tell someone about all of this. He’s going to be furious when he finds out what’s happened. Martha doesn’t exactly feel comfortable with the idea of going to the pub but she has to make a good impression on these people.

Martha goes over to the rack to retrieve her coat, and as she reaches up the long sleeves of her dress slip down, revealing black and blue skin and a couple of angry cuts. They disappear once more, as does the mark on her face, when she puts her coat on. “It was lovely to meet you all,” she says out of politeness, and she’s not sure how much of that is true. 

“Bye, Martha, Finn can show you out,” Tommy says, and when Martha glances to Finn she sees his cheeks are tinged pink. He’s been surprisingly quiet ever since they came into the den. He smiles at her, and then moves towards the door. 

Martha follows him, and as they go back into the house the calls of goodbye from the rest of the family grow quieter and quieter until they’re muffled into nothingness when Finn closes the door. “Do you need me to walk you anywhere?” Finn asks when they’re alone, running a hand through his hair. 

“No, it’s fine, I’m only going to see my boyfriend. He’d kill me if I didn’t tell him about all this,” Martha replies as she adjusts the fur of the coat so it completely conceals the mark on her face. 

Finn’s eyes widen, his entire face gaining a sourness that Martha hadn’t expected. “Boyfriend?” he repeats. 

“Is that a problem?” Martha replies as delicately as she can, a little taken aback by Finn’s reaction. He didn’t strike her as the jealous type. 

“No!” he quickly says. “No, no there’s no problem at all. What’s his name? Would I know him?”

“Why do you care so much? You barely know me.” 

The rosy hue returns to Finn’s cheeks. “I’m only asking in case I know him, that’s all,” he insists. 

His name sits comfortably in Martha’s mouth, and she rolls it around with her tongue before finally spitting it out. “His name is Joseph Astrella,” she tells Finn, and she begins to walk towards the door. “I’ll ask him if he knows you.”

Martha turns the door handle, but can only open it a crack before Finn slams it shut again. “Astrella? You’re the girl he’s been seeing?”

“I didn’t realise I was the subject of gossip,” Martha says, her face sour.

“It’s more that he is, not you,” Finn explains. “My mate Isaiah goes to the Astrella’s bakery and apparently Joseph mentions his sweetheart sometimes, but never gives a name.” Finn leans in closer and lowers his voice. “Tommy won’t be happy if he finds out you’re with an Italian, you know. Our family doesn’t exactly get on well with them.”

Martha moves away from him. “Well, lucky for you I’m not part of your family, am I? Can I go now?”

Finn opens the door for her. “Enjoy yourself, I suppose.”

Martha doesn’t look at Finn as she says goodbye to him, and as she steps out into the daylight her head begins to spin. What do they put in that whiskey? She smiles a little at the thought of seeing Joseph, but the worry brews in her as she remembers how much she has to tell him. She’s not sure who he’ll want to kill first: the man from last night, her landlady or Finn Shelby. 

Finn seems too innocent to be a part of that family. Martha can’t help but wonder how he fits in when they’re all so brash and excitable and he seems so much softer and sweet-natured. She wonders how she will fit in too.

The familiar scent of freshly baked bread and sweet vanilla hangs all around the corner of Coventry Road, and as Martha inhales a smile creeps onto her lips. She’s not surprised to see a queue almost all the way back to the door and hardly any empty tables when she gets closer to Astrella’s Bakery. A small bell chimes when she pushes the door open, and Mr Astrella’s head lifts from wrapping up a loaf of bread when he hears the sound. He grins at Martha, and signals with a flour-covered hand. The other customers don’t stare or glare; they’re more than used to Martha cutting the queue by now. Some even smile at her, regulars who know her as ‘Joseph’s sweetheart’. 

“Martha, darling!” Mr Astrella exclaims when she reaches the counter, his accent still thick after twenty years in Birmingham. He greets her with kind caramel eyes and lifts up the hatch of the counter. It’s been said that those eyes are deceptive, and that Giovanni Astrella is actually quite handy with a knife when he needs to be. 

But Martha can’t imagine the man in front of him using a knife unless he were slicing a loaf of bread. He takes her hands and kisses both her cheeks, something it took Martha a little while to get used to, and meets her gaze with a warm grin. “I expect you’re looking for my Joseph.”

“Indeed I am,” Martha replies. She’s not been to the bakery since before the funeral. Whenever she’s made plans to see Joseph they’ve always gone out somewhere, like the Bullring or for a walk along the canal. 

“He’s in the back room, I believe.” Mr Astrella turns towards a half open door. “Joseph, vieni qui, Martha è qui!” 

As soon as Mr Astrella finishes his sentence the door creaks fully open, and Joseph stands leaning against the doorway, with messy hair and clothes covered in flecks of flour. It’s even tainted his face. 

Martha can’t control the smile that grows when she sees him. That same smile appears on Joseph’s face, and he walks forward to wrap his arms around her, but when he does Martha gasps in pain. Quickly he lets go of her. “What’s wrong? That couldn’t possibly have hurt you.” He focuses on her face, and Martha knows before he reaches out to move her fur collar that he’s spotted the mark that was supposed to be concealed. She doesn’t stop him revealing that awful jagged cut. Martha couldn’t bring herself to look at it in the mirror this morning. “Jesus, what happened to you? Who did this?”

She takes a little step back from him and glances momentarily to where Mr Astrella was. Thankfully he’s gone back to serving customers. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she tries to explain, but the tears are already welling and she knows in a few seconds they’ll cascade down her cheeks. 

They finally start when Jo cups her face in his hands and runs his thumb around her cheek, careful not to aggravate the injury even more. Her breaths grow ragged and she buries her face in his shoulder again. “You’re going to be so angry at me for what I’ve done,” she chokes out. 

Joseph leans in close, tilts her head up and kisses her forehead. He lets his face linger next to hers for a moment, his brows furrowing. “Have you been drinking?” All Martha can do is nod in response. “Come on, let’s go and get you cleaned up.” He loops an arm around her waist and leads her through the door and down a little corridor to a storage room, the atmosphere populated with flour particles. 

Martha scrubs at her eyes to get rid of the tears, but they never stop. Not that it matters much; Jo’s seen her a lot worse than this. “I’m sorry,” she whispers as she perches herself on an old crate. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he comforts, kissing her tenderly. It seems to be the only way he knows how to comfort her, perhaps a way to comfort himself too. He would never have done that had his father been around. “I’ll get the first aid kit, alright?” 

Martha nods as he vanishes from sight, removing her coat in an attempt to stop the heat creeping up her neck. How on earth is she supposed to explain all of this to him? 

Joseph returns quicker than Martha would like to, a little box in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “It might wash the alcohol away,” he half jokes as he hands the glass to her and she accepts it with trembling hands. “And since when were you a day drinker?”

She can’t meet his gaze. “It was only one glass of whiskey, and I didn’t really want it anyway.”

Martha watches as he removes a vial of antiseptic solution from the little first aid box and begins applying it to a cotton pad. When he brings it up to Martha’s face she hisses and squints up her face in pain. It almost hurts as much as receiving the injury. “Sorry,” Joseph says. Martha’s teeth rattle against the glass as she takes a swig of water. “Who’s been giving you whiskey then, eh?”

He takes the antiseptic away from her face then, and reaches into the box again for a clean cotton pad. Being away from him somehow makes it easier to release the name from her lips. “Thomas Shelby,” Martha whispers, glancing towards the window. 

Joseph slams the box shut. Martha flinches. “And what the fuck were you doing with Thomas Shelby? Did he do this to you?”

“No!” Martha shoots back. “He stopped the other man before anything else could happen.”

“Other man?” Joseph stalks back towards Martha. “Martha, what other man?”

Martha’s body trembles, and that’s when the story unravels, interrupted by her own sobs and Joseph’s kisses of attempted reassurance. The kisses stop when she explains why Tommy gave her whiskey, and Jo turns his back and paces in a circle. “Joseph?” No response. “Jo, please don’t be like this, please don’t be angry at me.”

Joseph lets out a sharp breath and runs a hand through his hair before turning back to Martha, the confusion and anger brewing in his face. “Why?” is the only thing he can say. 

“I need the money, I need this job. Tommy’s offering me more than I get down at the BSA and I wouldn’t be able to pay my rent if I hadn’t agreed to work for him.” Martha drains her glass of water. It does nothing to settle her anxieties. “Are you angry at me?”

“If you were short on money you could’ve asked me for help, you know,” Joseph mutters. 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Joseph walks over and sits on the crate beside her, attempting to compose himself. “I’m angry about what happened to you, and I’m angry that you have to work for them.” He takes both her hands in his, squeezes them tightly. “Martha, they’re dangerous people, most of what they do is illegal. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I’m not going to be doing any illegal work, alright?” She looks at him, kisses him quickly. “Please, just trust me.”

Joseph is silent for a moment. “Okay, but if they ever put you in danger-”

“They won’t,” Martha cuts in.

“If they do,” Joseph carries on, “you tell me.”

Martha quickly nods, and stands up from the crate. “I actually need to go. They’ve invited me out to drink with them at The Garrison. It seemed rude to say no.”

Joseph stands too, and their fingers entwine as they make their way back to the front of the bakery. Martha pulls it open, but quickly shuts it again when she sees who Joseph’s father is serving at the counter. She swears under her breath and leans against the door. “John’s there,” she whispers. 

“John Shelby? Please don’t tell me you told him about us.”

“I didn’t!” Martha says. “I mentioned you to Finn and he wasn’t going to tell Tommy.”

“And why would you tell Finn Shelby?”

“He’s harmless,” Martha reassures Joseph. “I just hope he’s not stupid as well.”

Joseph looks down at Martha, gazing into her eyes. She catches that glimpse of disappointment in his face. “Stay safe, alright?” He moves away to peer through a crack in the door, and after a few moments he nods and turns back to her. “John’s gone now.” He opens the door for Martha and she steps back out into the brightness of the bakery. 

“I’ll see you soon,” she says, and makes her way back over to the hatch in the counter. “Goodbye, Mr Astrella,” she calls to Joseph’s father, and he waves to her as he serves a customer. 

Even though it’s still light outside, the prospect of walking alone makes Martha’s stomach churn. There’s no way of telling what could be lurking in the shadows. 

So Martha walks hastily through the streets, never stopping or slowing her gait even slightly, and checking every alley before she walks past it. Every time she passes a man she sees Mr Franklin’s face, his skin pale beneath the bright blood that taints it. So she keeps her head down until her feet lead her to The Garrison. 

He could be in there. He could be in there drinking with his friends or wife and they wouldn’t have a clue what he did to her. Has he done it to others too? Or was it just because Martha made herself look young and vulnerable that he thought he could take advantage of her?

Martha suppresses the thoughts of him and takes a few deep breaths. She’s here for a couple of drinks with the Shelbys; thoughts of him aren’t going to get in the way of that. 

Hopefully Finn has kept his mouth shut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hope you're all doing okay. Yesterday was certainly a very eventful day in the Peaky Blinders fandom with the announcement about series six. I'm so glad they're able to start filming now but of course I'm upset that this will be the last series, I'm really not ready to say goodbye to the Shelbys. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please leave kudos or a comment if you like it and hopefully the next chapter will be up on Friday!
> 
> Clara x


	7. 'you're a Peaky Girl now'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Martha spends the evening in The Garrison with somewhat disastrous consequences

16th March 1924

Martha pushes the door to The Garrison open, and immediately the sounds of rowdy voices and the clinking of glasses wash over her like a wave. The pub was run down and dismal at the end of the war, but ever since the Peaky Blinders bought it the once dark interior is now filled with rich red wallpaper and frosted windows. It’s no surprise that almost every table is filled and the barman is barely visible with the amount of people ordering drinks. 

Among them, Martha spots Arthur Shelby chatting to the barman as if there isn’t a multitude of other people waiting to be served. When Martha pushes the door open Arthur looks up, and grins when he sees her. “Hello, Martha!” he calls out, and gestures for her to join him at the bar. 

As she makes her way over people look up from their conversations to stare at the young girl who somehow knows the eldest Shelby sibling. Martha can’t help but scan the room for David Franklin as she walks across the sticky carpet towards Arthur. He doesn’t seem to be in here, thankfully, and Martha feels some of the tension leave her body.

“Hello, Arthur,” Martha says, returning the man’s smile. Up close his skin is freckled, and his cheeks are flecked with small scars. 

“Did you get all your errands done, love? What do you want to drink? It’s on the house.”

“Yes, I did,” Martha says, but if she doesn’t sound believable Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. She could probably tell him the biggest lie in the world and he’d be too half soaked to realise she wasn’t telling him the truth. “I’ll just have a small gin and tonic, please.”

The barman, whose name Martha learns to be Harry, pours her drink and slides it across the counter to her. She picks it up and Arthur does the same with the glass of whiskey that sits beside it, and he leads her across the main room to an oak door with frosted windows. “This is where we Shelbys drink,” he says. “Keeps out any prying eyes and ears.”

Arthur pushes the door open and reveals almost everyone who was at the gambling den earlier on. Martha notes the absence of Esme and is relieved, but the relief vanishes when she spots John sat in the corner, a cigar between his lips. They’re all sat on a plush couch built into the wall around a dark wooden table. Martha coughs a little as she inhales the thick smoke that hangs in the air. 

“Good of you to join us, Martha,” Ada says. Her cheeks are tinged pink and her hair is a little out of place, and yet she still manages to look elegant in her navy dress. “I see Arthur’s already introduced you to our alcoholic ways.”

Martha smiles at her, and takes a seat beside Finn on the edge of the couch. He barely looks at her and instead stares at the glass of whiskey he nurses in his hand. She hadn’t expected him to be like this, but lets it set the mood between them. “I definitely need a drink after the couple of days I’ve had,” Martha says.

“You won’t have to worry about anything like that again, Martha,” Arthur says. “You’re under our protection now. And if anyone refuses to treat you with respect we’ll cut them a smile.”

Martha’s eyes grow wide with worry. “You would hurt someone just to keep me safe?”

“No, a threat is usually enough to send people running these days,” Tommy says, and the wave of realisation about what she’s become caught up in washes over Martha. Clearly nothing stops them getting their own way, and with all the stories Martha has heard she knows how true that is. Rumours travel fast across the cobbles. 

“So, Martha, tell us about yourself,” Polly says, and Martha feels herself shrink back into her seat. “Tell us about your life.”

Such a simple set of five words, and yet a seemingly impossible statement to answer, and the worst part is the way it causes more and more questions to come flooding in from the rest of the family. Martha answers as honestly as she can, not saying too much about this and that, and certainly not dragging things out for too long when John’s eyes haven’t left her ever since Arthur brought her into the snug. The sweetness of the gin is the only thing that keeps the smile on her face. They ask about her education, her family, her friends, thankfully not about any relationships, and then finally about the alcohol. “What do you think of it, eh?” Tommy asks her. She can’t be sure whether it’s a test or not.

So she treats it as one. “Yes, it’s very nice, thank you,” she says, and then looks closer at the bottle. “I’ve never seen that brand before.”

“It’s our own brand,” Tommy tells her, and passes her the bottle so she can read the inscription. “Made from my father’s recipe. Distilled for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness.”

Martha peers down at the bottle when it’s pressed into her hand, the lettering blurry as her eyes move. She smiles at Tommy politely. “It really is lovely,” she says as she places the bottle back on the table. She can’t quite remember how many glasses she’s had, it can’t be more than three, but it’s so tempting to keep refilling her glass. Keeping her wits about her would be the sensible thing, but the Shelbys seem to have cast this spell on her, made her feel like one of them. Whether the kindness is genuine or not Martha can’t tell. 

When Finn suddenly stands up, she jolts a little in surprise. “I’m going out to get some air,” he says, and Martha swings her legs out of the way so he can get past. He doesn’t look at anyone as he advances towards the door.

“I think I’ll come with you,” Martha says, standing too and following him to the snug door. “It’s getting a bit stuffy in here.” Finn’s face doesn’t change.

He pushes the door open and holds it open to Martha, but still won’t look at her. She keeps close to him as they cross the main room of The Garrison and then step out into the night. This time he doesn’t hold the door open for her. Martha rolls her eyes at him behind his back and follows him out onto Garrison Lane. The last remnants of the amber sunset hang about in the sky, blurring with the haze of smoke that never leaves the air around here. Soon there will be nothing but darkness, and the dimness of the streetlamps will mask the sins of these streets. 

Finn stops just outside the pub and leans against the wall, reaching into his pocket for a silver cigarette tin. “Do you want one?” he asks Martha as he opens it up. 

“No, thank you, I don’t smoke,” she replies, shaking her head. 

He snaps the case shut. “If you don’t smoke then what was the point in following me out here?”

“Am I not allowed to come out for some fresh air?” Not that any of the air is exactly fresh in this place. Finn watches her for a moment, raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t exactly look pleased, I wanted to check you were alright,” Martha eventually relents. 

Finn takes out a lighter and sets his cigarette alight. “You sure you don’t want one?” 

Martha pauses for a moment. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try.” Finn holds out a cigarette and lights it for her as she places it between her lips, shielding the flame with the curve of her hand. She inhales, and immediately coughs as the burning sensation scorches her lungs. “That’s fucking awful!” she says between splutters. She catches Finn smirking and glares at him. 

“It could’ve been worse,” Finn says. “I threw up the first time I tried one. I was thirteen and John took the piss out of me for weeks afterwards.”

Martha takes another drag and coughs again, but not as much as the first time. “So why did you leave so suddenly?”

Finn takes a drag of his cigarette, smoke billowing from his mouth like a chimney as he speaks. “When you left the others asked where you had gone on your errands. I told them you were going to the bakery.” Martha’s eyes grow wide and she opens her mouth to speak but Finn jumps in before she can. “I didn’t say anything about you going to see Joseph,” he reassures her.

“That explains why John came to the bakery,” she says, sighing. 

“He did?”

Martha nods. “I don’t know if he saw me. If he did then it explains why he keeps glaring at me. Joseph doesn’t think he saw me.”

“And did you tell your Joseph that you’re working for us now?” Finn asks. 

Maybe not telling Joseph would’ve been the wiser thing. At least then she wouldn’t have to worry about him hitting the roof if things don’t work out with this new job. “I did. He told me that he wasn’t angry with me about it but I could tell he was.”

Finn drops the remnants of his cigarette to the floor and extinguishes it with the twist of his foot. He’s moved closer now, so close that Martha’s cigarette makes his eyes glow and she can see every little freckle on his cheeks. “We should probably go back inside,” he says. Martha quickly nods, drops her cigarette in a nearby puddle, and Finn leads the way back into the pub. 

Arthur and John are even more intoxicated than when Martha had arrived, and she and Finn walk in on them telling some crude joke that leaves Ada and Michael in hysterics, much to the dismay of Polly. John stops laughing when Martha enters. 

“You two took your time,” Ada comments as she finishes giggling. 

“It was very stuffy in here,” Finn replies, raising his eyebrows at his sister. “You’d realise if you went outside.”

“I’d rather stay in the warm, thanks.” Ada pats the empty space beside her. “Come and sit over here away from the boys, Martha. You won’t be able to breathe with the amount they smoke.”

Martha skirts around the table to where Ada is and perches beside her, the scent of her perfume masking the stench of cigarette smoke. Arthur is still in fits of laughter, but John has retreated back into that gloomy shell, staring daggers at Martha. “I have a question for you, Martha,” he says, the first time he’s addressed her all night.

“Yes?”

“What were you doing with Giovanni Astrella’s son?” As John asks the question Martha’s face pales, and her hands begin to tremble. She says nothing, and the anger in John’s face grows. “I saw you coming out of the back room of the bakery with him, clearly you had something to hide.”

“Martha, say something for Christ’s sake,” Polly says, glaring at John in an attempt to subdue his anger. 

Martha looks to Finn in search of some hope, her bottom lip quivering, but there’s nothing he can do. They’re both helpless. “I…” she begins, but no other words escape her.

“Fucking say something!” John yells as he slams his fist on the table.

Martha sips her gin, an attempt to cling onto some kind of confidence. “He’s my sweetheart,” she finally says, and she catches Finn give her a small smile of reassurance. 

The anger brews in John’s eyes, and he starts to rise from his seat until Finn stands too and pulls him down by the shoulder. “John, calm down.”

“Did you know, Finn? Did you know she’s seeing a fucking Italian?”

“John,” Tommy warns, but John just ignores him, beads of sweat forming on his forehead from anger and the sheer heat of the room. 

“Yeah, I did know,” Finn says, attempting to stare down his brother. “And do you know why I didn’t tell you? Because I knew you’d react like this.” 

Martha’s eyes flit between the brothers. Finn has the advantage of height, but John’s shoulders are broad where Finn’s are barely filled out. 

“And how else was I supposed to act, eh? Tommy finds some random whore off the streets and offers her a job, we get no input into anything and then we find out she’s seeing a fucking Italian.”

“That is enough, John!” Tommy slams his glass of whiskey down onto the table and reaches out for John. He takes him by the arm and guides him towards the snug door, leaning in close to speak to him. It takes Martha a moment to realise that they’re not speaking English, and another for her to realise her cheeks are damp. “You go home to Esme and the kids, you’re steaming drunk. Go on, now.” Tommy switches back to English and holds the snug door open. 

John lingers for a moment, and Martha’s eyes never leave him even as Ada rubs her shoulder in comfort. “Some of us wanted to be treated as more than toy soldiers, Tommy,” John says, and then slams the door shut as he goes. 

Tommy sighs as John goes, leaning against the wall with one hand and pinching his brow with the other. “Fucking hell,” he murmurs, and then moves back to his seat. 

“You alright?” Ada whispers to Martha. Martha can’t bring herself to look at her, or at anyone else either, and merely nods as she keeps her gazed firmly fixed on the table. 

“You should’ve told us that you’re seeing an Italian,” Tommy says from across the table. 

Martha raises her eyebrows. “Why? What does that have to do with my job?” she asks.

“We’ve got some very powerful enemies, Martha,” Arthur explains. “We wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice in taking this job.” Martha turns to Tommy. “Besides, I thought you said I wasn’t going to be involved in the illegal side.”

Tommy swirls his drink in his hand. “You’re not, but we have to protect you from the dangers of it all the same. I thought a smart girl like you would’ve realised that.”

“Maybe we should all head home, it’s getting late and we’ve all got work tomorrow,” Finn cuts in. Martha’s grateful that he has; she was bound to lose this argument anyway and with everyone intoxicated things would have gone awfully. That certainly would’ve been a way to make a bad impression on her new employers. “I’ll walk with you, Martha?”

“Thanks,” Martha says as she and Finn stand from their seats. “Thank you for inviting me out tonight.” She can’t exactly leave without showing her appreciation for the free drinks and crippling dread that accompanied them. 

Martha moves away from the table, but before she can start towards the door Polly reaches out and takes her by the hand. “Keep your head up, lass,” she says as she squeezes Martha’s palm. “You’re a Peaky Girl now.” Polly flashes her a wicked grin, but Martha doesn’t return it. She yanks her hand away from Polly’s and follows Finn out of the door, letting it slam shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hope you all enjoyed this chapter! John certainly isn't the happiest of people and it's going to be interesting to see how Martha deals with him as she starts to work for the Shelbys.  
> I'm not sure how regular my updating schedule is going to be over the next few weeks but I'll try to stick to regular updates as much as I can even if they're not as frequent.  
> Hope you're all doing okay, feel free to leave kudos and a comment and I'll see you soon
> 
> Clara x


	8. 'should I be afraid?'

16th March 1924

Finn Shelby isn’t unaccustomed to the company of women. It was just him, Aunt Polly and Ada at home during those long war years, and women seemed to be everywhere. Women drinking in The Garrison, women serving in the corner shop, even women coming to lay bets in the gambling den. 

But the company of girls his age is a different matter altogether. If his bright ginger hair wasn’t enough to scare them away, that pesky surname definitely did the trick. At least Ada’s name changed when she married Freddie, Finn wishes he had that luxury. Martha is the first girl who hasn’t kept her distance, but that’s only because Tommy gave her a job.

He almost has to jog to keep up with her now as she crosses the main room of The Garrison and goes out onto the hazy street, darkness quickly falling. But it’s not that difficult to catch up to her. “Slow down, you’ll fall over with the amount you’ve had to drink,” he says as he reaches out to steady her. 

When Martha turns around to him, her eyes are glassy with tears. “Yeah, well I didn’t have as much as some people.” Her voice cracks as she speaks and she swipes at her eyes, she turns her face away from Finn. Her makeup is smudged beneath her eyes when she turns back. “This was all a mistake. I should never have accepted Tommy’s offer, I should never have gone out last night, I should never have-” 

Her spiralling stops as Finn takes her in his arms and holds her close. She’s stiff at first, but eventually melts into his warmth. Her face barely comes up to his shoulder. “You’re okay. I’m sorry about John, he’s a right stubborn bastard.” 

“You don’t have to apologise to me.”

“I do when he would never do it himself.”

“Is he always like that?” Her voice is thick with tears. 

Finn sighs. “A lot of the time, especially recently. I don’t know what’s got into him,” Finn says. “But he can be funny too, and he’s not always that bad,” he quickly adds. 

But it doesn’t do much to reassure Martha. “Polly was wrong, I’m not one of you.” She moves away from him a little. The whites of her eyes are tinged red. 

Finn reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, a reflex reaction from years surrounded by his brothers, especially Tommy. It seems to be his motto that whenever something goes even remotely wrong, a cigarette will fix things. Either that or a glass of whiskey, but that wouldn’t be the wisest choice right now. He holds one out to Martha too, and this time she doesn’t hesitate as she takes it from between his finger and thumb. Her fingers are elegant and slim, skin pale and nails neatly clipped. Yesterday they had been tainted with blood. 

He lights her cigarette first, shielding the flame with the curve of his hand, and this time when she inhales there’s a lot less spluttering. “Maybe you are one of us after all,” he murmurs with a sly grin, but it disappears from his face when she grimaces. “Sorry,” he says. “Look, whether you like it or not, you’ve signed that contract and there’s no going back.”

“You act like it wasn’t my only option.” She’s turned further away from him now, isn’t even looking at him. Instead, she leans against the outside wall of The Garrison and gazes out into the darkness of Garrison Lane as she clutches at her cigarette with a trembling hand. 

Finn dares to close the gap between them, and is almost surprised when she doesn’t try to get away from him. “You’ll get used to it all eventually.” 

She’s quiet for a moment. “What exactly does he have against me?” Her voice is quieter than before. “And why does your family dislike Italians so much?” Martha lets her cigarette drop to the floor and Finn watches as she starts walking on somewhat unsteady legs. 

He’s at her side in an instant, and he tells himself it’s to make sure she doesn’t fall over. “I don’t know,” he says, sighing. “He’s always been one to hold grudges for no reason. Arthur says he was like that even before our dad left.” Finn can barely remember his father, couldn’t even picture him in his head until he showed up out of nowhere when he’d just turned eleven. The last they’d heard was that he was somewhere in Chicago gambling his sins away. 

“And the Italians?”

“Do you know of a man called Darby Sabini?” Martha shakes her head, as Finn expected she would. “He’s a powerful Italian gangster in London, and a few years back he was caught up in a turf war with another gangster called Alfie Solomons.”

Martha’s head lifts up at the mention of Solomons. “I know who he is.”

“You do?”

She pauses for a moment. “I’ve seen photographs in the racing papers,” she quickly says. “The large man with the beard?”

Martha’s knowledge of Solomons surprises Finn, but he brushes it away. “Tommy helped him win the turf war down in Camden, Tommy and Alfie have been civil with each other ever since and the resentment against Italians just never went away.” There’s more to it than that, but the simple version of the story will do for now. Finn’s sure that Martha won’t want to hear about all the little betrayals and violence that was reported back to him whenever his brothers came home from their trips to London or the races. 

“And does Tommy have any more turf war or alliances lined up?” Martha asks him. Finn notices her struggling to keep up with the quick pace he’s set, so he slows his steps.

He shakes his head. “If he does, it’ll be nothing a couple of razor blades can’t solve”

“Your caps really have razor blades in them?” Her eyes grow wide. 

Finn removes his cap. “See for yourself.” He hands her the cap and she turns it over in her hands, the twin blades glistening beneath the light of the moon. “I’ve never used them, the others have. They don’t think I’m old enough yet.”

“A crown for a prince,” Martha murmurs, something close to a smile spreading across her face. “Or perhaps a princess?” she jokes as she places the cap atop her head. It droops down and conceals her eyes, and some kind of drunken laugh escapes her.

“The others would kill me if they found out I even let you hold it, let alone wear it.” Finn reaches out to try and adjust the cap on Martha’s head, and instead of falling down it tilts to the side, masking one eyebrow. 

She adjusts her hair beneath the cap but keeps her gaze fixed on him. “Why?”

“They don’t exactly want you to see the dirty side of what we do. You shouldn’t see it much anyway because you’ll be working on the legal side but… what are you looking at?”

Martha has turned away from him now and back towards the pub, though it’s warm glow is nowhere near as visible now that they’re halfway down Garrison Lane. But it’s not the pub she’s looking at. “Shit,” Finn hears her mutter as she swipes the cap from her head and quickly hands it back to him. It’s only then that he realises what she’s looking at: walking along the cobbles towards them is a tall lad, perhaps as tall as Finn, an urgency in his stride. Her beloved Joseph. 

When he’s closer he stops in his tracks and calls out to them. “Martha, is that you?” 

They’re far enough away that Martha can get away with rolling her eyes, but she doesn’t ignore him. “Yes it’s me,” she calls back, and Joseph advances. 

The cap is firmly back on Finn’s head by the time Joseph has reached them, and he doesn’t spare Finn a second glance while he embraces his sweetheart. “You’re alright?” Finn watches as he moves from the embrace but keeps his palms firmly planted on Martha’s arms, stroking her coat with his thumbs. 

Martha smiles weakly. “Yes, I’m fine, Finn was just walking me home. What are you doing out so late?”

“Had to make sure you were alright, didn’t I?” When his eyes leave Martha’s face, they turn to Finn, and he makes no attempt to hide the repulsion in his face. Clearly he knows the Shelby name and nothing else. Would Martha have told Joseph about him?

Still, the least Finn can do is be civil, if not for his own sake then for Martha’s. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he says as he holds out his hand to Joseph. “Finn Shelby.”

Joseph begrudgingly shakes his hand. “Yes, I know who you are,” he says with a face like a thundercloud. But before he can erupt he turns back to Martha. “I was going to come by the pub and make sure you were alright.” 

Martha glances between the two boys, but her eyes don’t linger on Finn for too long. “Are you mad?” she says to Joseph. “John would’ve cut you there and then if they’d seen you.”

“You don’t mean…”

“They already know. John did see us.” Martha’s voice is hoarse as she holds back tears, and Finn shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. If Joseph wasn’t here he’d wrap his arms around Martha in an instant but all he can do now is be an observer. 

“Three fucking guesses as to whose fault all of this is,” says Joseph as he turns back to Finn. Here comes the thunderstorm. He points a finger at Finn but keeps his other hand firmly on Martha’s arm. 

“You can’t blame Finn for this!” Martha pleads. “It isn’t his fault.”

Joseph jolts his head back towards his sweetheart. “And would you rather I blamed you? You’ve known him for five fucking seconds and thought it would be alright to tell him something you couldn’t even tell your father when he was alive.”

Finn watches Martha physically recoil as he says this, tugging her arm away from Joseph, and it’s then that the tears finally slip from her eyes. Slowly at first, and then so heavily that she has to turn away to compose herself. Finn wonders whether this is how he treats her all the time. “Don’t you dare bring her father into this,” he says, his voice low and steady, just like Tommy taught him. 

Joseph takes a step forward and sizes Finn up. “Do you think you know her better than I do?” 

Martha has turned back to the boys now, and Finn dares a glance at her as Joseph stares him down. They’re the same height, give or take, but where Finn is lanky Joseph is broader, and if this were a boxing match Finn certainly wouldn’t bet on himself. 

Finn breaks the silence. “I don’t know Martha better than you.” He pauses, his eyes never leaving Joseph. “But I do know that my family finding out was not my fault. I can’t help it if nobody can control John these days.”

They stay like that for a moment, neither of them daring to throw the first punch. Then Joseph takes Finn by surprise and he backs down. “Well, you’d better find someone who can. I’m not going to let you or any of your family hurt her.” He gestures back to Martha, who’s watched the whole ordeal with her mouth agape. Finn hadn’t expected Joseph to do anything, especially not with Martha watching. He might not have ever used the razor blades in his cap, but that doesn’t mean he can’t defend himself, or anybody else for that matter. 

Martha steps forward towards Joseph, her face now illuminated by a street lamp. Finn’s grateful that the streets are deserted; the last thing his family need are rumours of a war between them and the Italians. There’s already enough feuds between them, let alone with another gang or family.

“Jo, please go home,” Martha says, looking to Joseph with pleading eyes. “Your parents will be worried about you, I’ll be fine with Finn.” Finn hopes he’ll walk away from this. He’s used to taking punches from hours spent with Isaiah in the boxing ring, and he doesn’t exactly care if Joseph gets hurt either, but that last thing he wants is Martha getting caught up in it all. It’s bad enough that she’s already had to endure so much tonight. 

Joseph sighs, flashes a quick glare in Finn’s direction and then turns back to Martha. “If you insist.” He kisses Martha, clearly trying to assert his dominance, and turns on his heel to leave. But for a moment he turns back to Finn. “If she gets hurt in any way, it’ll be you who suffers the consequences.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Finn mutters as Joseph leaves for good this time, and he rolls his eyes at Martha. She says nothing, but gazes at Joseph as he walks away from them. “I’m surprised he didn’t throw you over his shoulder and take you with him.”

“So am I,” she murmurs, and sighs as she runs her hands over her eyes. 

“Does he always treat you like that?”

Martha shakes her head. “He is genuinely kind to me, he’s just overprotective, that’s all,” she says. “But he knows better than to pick a fight with you. I think he just wanted you to think that he’s someone to be afraid of.” She’s started walking again now, and Finn matches her pace. 

“Should I be afraid?” Finn asks, purely out of curiosity. 

Martha silently muses for a few seconds before answering him. “I don’t think so, at least he isn’t on his own.” She glances up to the moon. “What a rotten evening.”

“I really am sorry about John,” Finn apologises again. “It’s even hard for Tommy to keep him under control these days.” They’ve reached the top end of Watery Lane now; not far to Martha’s flat.

The church bells of St Martin’s echo in the distance. Finn counts eleven tolls. 

“I can walk the rest of the way on my own,” Martha says.

Finn smiles at her as they stop on the street corner. “If you’re sure,” he says. He desperately wants to wrap his arms around her, but is unsure if he should.

Martha makes it easier when she does it herself, quickly squeezing him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says. 

As she starts to walk away, Finn calls out to her. “Keep your head up, Peaky Girl,” he says, stealing Polly’s words. 

She turns back to him and says nothing, but Finn swears he can see the glimpse of a smile on her lips, turning the corners of her mouth up. He watches as her figure grows smaller and smaller, and the echo of her shoes on the cobble streets fades into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, sorry I've been a bit MIA, school has been ridiculously hectic for me and having my lessons at home really hasn't helped, which unfortunately means writing hasn't been much of a priority for me as of late. I do have a week off next week though so hopefully I'll be able to spend some time catching up on chapters. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, I really enjoyed writing the first meeting between Finn and Joseph and it's going to be even more fun writing Martha's first day working for Shelby Company Limited. I'll try and get that up at some point next week!
> 
> Clara x


	9. 'didn't you wonder where I was?'

17th March 1924

Martha barely sleeps, her mind too clouded by the events of the day. By the time the church bells chime seven she feels more tired than she did last night. She lies beneath her blankets next to the window as a cool draft blows across the room. It’s hard to work out where it’s even coming from. Her head throbs as she sits up, and the room distorts for a few moments in the early morning haze before it returns to normal. What the hell was in that gin last night? 

Last night is the last thing she wants to be thinking about, especially when today marks the beginning of interacting with the Shelbys on a daily basis. Keeping her wits about her has to be the priority. It should’ve been the priority last night too, but she desperately needed those drinks, even if they had disastrous consequences. 

Today means facing John. Today means facing his antagonistic glares while trying to find out how to fit into a company run by a man who has the whole of Small Heath wrapped around his little finger. Well, perhaps not the whole of it. Martha can somewhat understand the hostility between the Italians and the Peaky Blinders, but John’s behaviour seemed a little… extreme. She hopes he’ll avoid her today, but there’s no way of telling exactly how he’ll be with her. 

When she gets out of bed, the iciness of the bedroom floor sends a chill through Martha’s body, goosebumps forming all along her pale arms. The jug of water on her bedside table is equally as icy, but thankfully it relieves her throbbing head a little when she pours it into her washbasin and splashes it across her face. Perhaps a trip to the bathhouse would’ve been a better idea than one to The Garrison. 

The wardrobe across from Martha’s bed is a small, rickety old thing that was already in the flat when she moved in. Thankfully there weren’t that many clothes to occupy it with; there’s mainly work dresses, a few nicer ones and then her riding clothes tucked away at the back somewhere. Martha pulls out the nicest work dress she has: dark blue with a white collar. It’s sleeves are long enough to cover the bruises that adorn her body and will shield her skin from the early spring child that’s showing no signs of giving way to warmer days. It’s not the prettiest, but it’ll have to do. 

After pinning her hair back and attempting to mask the damage to her face with some makeup, Martha slips on her boots and coat, and the first thing that greets her when she pulls back the curtain that divides the two rooms of her flat is the coat that Annie had given her. When she came home last night she just flung it onto the seat of the armchair and hadn’t given it a second thought until now. She should really hang it up so it doesn’t crease, but the thought of even laying a finger on it makes Martha feel sick. So does the prospect of eating breakfast, and all she can stomach before heading out the door is a strong cup of tea. 

There’s always some kind of haze hanging over Watery Lane, but this morning the fog is heavier than usual, so much so that Martha can barely see six feet in front of her. But as she traipses down the lane a figure in red comes into view on the other side of the cobbles. “Annie?” Martha calls out. 

Annie turns, her eyes narrowing as she attempts to focus on Martha through the fog. “Hello, where were you on Saturday?” Annie says as she crosses the road. “I would’ve come to get you but I had to be ready for customers and the other girls wouldn’t fucking shut up about some lad that Emily’s been seeing and-” Annie’s voice abruptly cuts out when she meets Martha on the footpath, eyes fixated on her jaw. Clearly the makeup wasn’t enough to cover the mark. “What the fuck happened to you?” Annie reaches out to Martha’s face, but can’t bring herself to make contact with the skin. 

Martha divulges it all. Recounting it this time is a little easier, but there are still moments where she stumbles over her words or can’t get them out altogether. Thank goodness she left the house early or else she’d be late for work. All the while one question is burning in her mind. “Annie, didn’t you wonder where I was?” 

Martha watches Annie retreat a little, arms glued to her sides. “I did.” Her head is bowed in guilt. “I did and I should’ve come to find you, I was just so busy and before I knew it it was midnight and I just assumed you weren’t coming. I never thought… fuck, I’m so sorry, Martha.” Annie takes Martha in her arms and holds her close. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“It’s alright, I’m alright.” It’s not quite the truth, but it’s the closest to the truth that Martha will allow herself to tell. “You don’t have to apologise.”

All Annie can do when she pulls away is nod ahead. She takes a moment to compose herself. “Tommy Shelby, eh? Who’d have thought you’d be working for the bloody Shelbys? You’ll have to bring me a gun home as a souvenir.”

“Unfortunately for you, I’m just his lowly junior secretary, not his hitwoman.” The fog is beginning to lift a little now, and if she stares hard enough, Martha can just about make out the Shelby’s house at the other end of the road. “Maybe I’ll find a bullet lying around somewhere and that can be your souvenir.”

“I’ll put it on my windowsill and treasure it forever.” Annie glances behind her, following Martha’s gaze. “Suppose I ought to let you go, wouldn’t want you being late on your first day.” Annie pulls Martha close one last time. “Stay safe, okay?”

Martha wishes she could stay there in her arms forever, avoiding John and whatever insults he plans to hurl her way today. “I’ll try my best,” she says when Annie releases her.

They say goodbye and go their separate ways: Annie towards the heavenly florist she works at during the day, and Martha towards the betting den. She’s surprised there isn’t already a gaggle of men waiting outside, though they’re probably all hungover from a weekend spent drowning their sorrows. 

The streets are beginning to wake up when Martha arrives at the door to the betting den. Mothers drag their knock-kneed children along the pavement in the direction of the little infant school Martha once attended, men with hardened faces and peaked caps march in little groups to the factories, and Martha stands staring up at her new place of employment. She can’t quite bring herself to knock on the door.

“Not much to look at from the outside, is it?” The gravelly voice from behind startles Martha, but when she turns to see Tommy a couple of paces behind her she sighs in relief. 

“Nothing around here is much to look at,” Martha replies. She attempts to smile at her new boss, but fears it comes across as more of a grimace. “Doesn’t stop the punters from laying their coins on your tables.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows as he steps forward to unlock the door with a key he retrieves from his coat pocket. “No, I don’t suppose it does.” He pushes the creaking door open and Martha follows him into the darkness of the betting den. 

It’s a lot gloomier than it had been yesterday, but when she enters Martha sees Lizzie and Polly going around the room switching on the lights and even lighting a few candles to fight the darkness brought by the fog. They look up as Martha enters and Tommy closes the door, the room relieved of the cool morning air. “Morning,” Martha says with a small smile. 

“Morning, Martha,” Lizzie chirps.

“Morning, love,” Polly adds as she finishes lighting a candle and turns to Martha and Tommy. Martha struggles to look her in the eye after last night. She really should apologise to Polly but now doesn’t exactly seem like the right time. “What brings you here so early, Thomas?” Polly asks

Tommy leans back against the wall next to the door. “Martha needs the grand tour of our esteemed premises.”

His comment earns a snort from Polly. “Since when has anything about us been esteemed?”

“I can show Martha around if it’s easier for you, Tom,” Lizzie pipes up. 

Martha watches as Tommy lets the silence between him and Lizzie linger for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on her as she returns a box of matches to their drawer. He tilts his head to one side. “Alright.”

Lizzie smiles, first at Tommy and then at Martha. Only Martha returns it. “Come on then, it’s just through here.” 

She leads Martha across the betting den to another door that Martha hadn’t spotted before. “The offices that run along the side of the den are just used for betting, the proper ones are through here,” Lizzie explains as she opens the door and leads Martha down a seemingly never ending dark corridor. There are so many twists and turns that Martha can’t keep track of where they are in relation to the betting den; she had no idea that their premises was so huge. 

Lizzie points to the different doors and administers labels to them all. “Polly’s office, Michael’s office, the lavatory, storage cupboard, another storage cupboard…”

“What’s this one?” Martha asks when they reach a fork in the corridor. To the right is the office Martha assumes she’ll be working in: engraved into the frosted window in gold lettering are the words ‘Elizabeth Stark, Senior Secretary.’ But to the right, at the end of the corridor is a set of grand double doors with more lettering that is too far away for Martha to read. 

“Tommy’s office,” Lizzie says as Martha dares to move further down the corridor towards the door. The gold writing is bigger and more elegant this time. ‘Thomas M Shelby, Company Director.’ Perhaps the title of ‘King of Small Heath’ would be more fitting.

“It never used to be like this,” Lizzie explains. “A few years ago these offices hadn’t even been built and the offices back by the den were all we had. Business has never been this good.”

“It’s a lot more...dignified than I thought it would be.” The word doesn’t sit right on Martha’s tongue, but it escapes her mouth anyway as she walks back towards Lizzie who has now pushed open the door to their office.

The room she reveals is lined with dark wall panels just like the corridors, but a sash window lets in a bit of light and a view of Dart Street, just next to Watery Lane. There are two desks: one large with a plush chair and typewriter, and the other slightly smaller, also with a typewriter but a less grand chair. “You’ll be in here with me at that desk over there,” Lizzie says as she points to the smaller desk. “I’ll be back in a moment, get yourself settled.” Lizzie smiles as she exists, leaving the door ajar. 

Once she’s alone, Martha walks to her new desk and sits down, letting her coat drape over the back of the chair. She admires the typewriter in front of her. It’s much nicer than the one she had at the BSA, which had keys that didn’t work half the time or would stick when you pressed them. This one gleams beneath the lamplight, and looks as if the keys have been recently oiled. She runs her fingers over the keys. 

When Lizzie returns she isn’t carrying any books. In fact, she isn’t carrying anything except a flustered look on her face. “There’s been a slight change of plan,” she says.

“In what way?”

“The betting den’s manic and they want me in to help. I’ll get you settled in here first but I’ll only be able to come back and check on you every so often.”

An idea arrives in Martha’s head. “Would it be easier if I helped in the betting den as well?” It’s the last thing she wants to do, to be surrounded by swarms of men who’ll most likely be rowdy. It wouldn’t even surprise her if some of them were already drunk at half past nine in the morning. But making a good impression on the Shelbys is the most important thing she can do right now, even if the thought of being in the betting den makes her stomach churn. Martha could swear she can already hear the rowdiness of the men from the office. 

The flustered look on Lizzie’s shifts to worry. “It might be, but it’s not the nicest job in the world. The men are like fucking pigs. I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“If it makes life easier for everyone else then I’m happy to do it, though you might have to show me what to do.”

Lizzie chews on her lip for a few seconds as she mulls it over. “Alright, if you insist. I’m sure Finn will be more than happy to show you the ropes.” 

Martha can’t help but smile quietly as she stands from her seat and follows Lizzie back towards the betting den.

They arrive at the door back to the den quicker than Martha would like to, and the sounds that travel through the wood are so loud that it feels like they’re already in the room. Lizzie turns back to Martha before she opens the door. “I’ve not seen it this bad in months. Are you sure about this?”

No. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“If a man makes you feel uncomfortable, tell me or Arthur or one of the others. Tommy will go mad if he finds out you’ve been in the betting den and something has happened to you.”

When Lizzie pushes the door open, they enter a world of chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry these updates aren't as regular as I'd like them to be, I'm go to try and be more regular but I'm not sure how that will work as I'm going back to school in a couple of weeks. I hope you're all doing okay
> 
> Clara x


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